


Low Rising

by hitlikehammers



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-31
Updated: 2011-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All was right(ish) in the life of Noah Puckerman: he had a decent job, he spent most of his downtime up some cheerleader’s skirt, and he got to screw MILFs on the side after scrubbing their pool liners clean. But when he starts noticing Kurt Hummel’s presence more than he used to (and a hell of a lot more than he should), things start to get really freaking complicated really freaking fast. Between field trips, car crashes, weddings, hotel rooms, and less actual sex than he knows how to even survive -- Noah finds himself stumbling unexpectedly into something that looks suspiciously like a relationship with the same little fairy boy he used to throw into dumpsters. And <i>that</i>, ladies and gentlemen, is enough to throw any hot-blooded teenage boy for a freaking loop. Art by the lovely profoundrice . <b>Warnings for strong language, sexual content, some sexual/homophobic slurs (keeping in context with the themes of the show); canon-compliant through Season One (with brief mentions of Season Two elements). General Spoilers Through Season One, with Minor Plot-Element Spoilers for Season Two.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the plot. Title is credit to The Swell Season.  
>  I've had this idea in my head for more than a year -- and, for once, it came out almost-close to what I'd had in mind (albeit, it was much longer in my head, and spanned... another 5-7 years after graduation, but hey, maybe a sequel?). Also, of course: my sincerest thanks to my test readers, my betas, and my artist for their utter wonderfulness in general.

Noah Puckerman hates a lot of things in life. One of them is the Hummel kid’s laugh.

Mostly, it’s loud. And not in the grind-of-an-engine or the roar-of-a-crowd-after-a-touchdown kind of way. More like the Jesus- _Christ-_ shut-the-fuck- _up_ kind of way. It’s the kind of loud that had their kindergarten teacher, Miss Bedford, wrinkling up her nose and flinching, even as she shot the boy a tight-lipped grin over blowups of the Letter People, back in the day.

Noah cleans Miss Bedford’s pool. She’s Mrs. Nelson now, not that it matters. She takes her ring off when she calls for her mid-season chemicals.

But Hummel’s laughter’s like a plague. There’s no escaping it, and it’s always there, and it makes his gag reflex act up when he’s drinking out of the water fountain, and it throws off his rhythm when he’s running suicides on the field. It’s infectious, and it sends off a wave of fucking _giggling_ that might as well send him breaking out in boils, or itching with lice or flies or locusts, whatever the fuck happened in Egypt -- he didn’t pay real good attention in Hebrew school, so sue him; and the worst part is that Noah’s pretty sure other people only laugh along out of the sheer desire to drown the kid out, to make that sound go away, to keep it from melting the insides of their brains until they start bleeding from their ears.

He’s pretty sure that’s the kind of sound that kills firstborns, no fucking lie.

It doesn’t help that Hummel’s laugh is also pitched like nails on a chalkboard. Or like the death-squeal of some wild animal after it’s been hit by a truck and is oozing out under tread-marks on the asphalt, smooshed between cracks in the pavement and knee-deep potholes that ODOT’s too useless to fix. It makes him trip over words in English when they’re reading Shakespeare or some other Euro-douche from their textbooks -- the same textbooks he’s made it his personal mission to ensure have a blatant etching of a dick on the cover, each and every one of them, before he graduates. It makes him forget the Spanish for _I like tacos and big tits_ when it’s his turn to have a conversation in front of the class for their midterm. It fucks him up sometimes when he’s trying to stare at Santana’s cleavage, makes him wince when there should be nothing wince-worthy about drooling over the way her boobs are pushed so high she’s almost choking on them, the way her nipples show through her uniform, just inside the neckline.

It might also have something to do with the fact that, when Noah’s at his locker, he’ll hear Hummel’s laugh, and it’s so goddamn breathy that he almost thinks it’s a chick’s laugh. And sometimes, when chicks laugh, Noah gets a little tight in the groin. Whatever. He’s a guy.

It’s not like it means anything. It mostly just pisses him off.

__________________________

 

Honest to fuck, Noah does not get what the big deal is with quote-unquote “intimacy.”

‘Cause like, what the fuck do these chicks want, anyway? He’s sitting there, fifth-period History, and his fucking phone battery’s gonna die in ten, when Santana follows up _< <_ _imma suck you betta than ur lil virgin mary eva did >> _with _< < ur an asshole and ur not gettin none o’ this >>_ out of fucking nowhere.

It’s not like there was any other reply to the first part other than _< < dunno, will u swallow? Q did >>._ He’s so not an asshole just for asking the obvious question.

Well, okay, he might be an asshole, but that doesn’t mean it should cost him a blowjob.

He figures it’s probably some of that crazy reverse chick psychology that people are always talking about; that that stupid Ben Israel douche is always writing about, and spitting off about at Celibacy Club. Because it’s not like she isn’t begging for it; she totally is. People don’t walk like that, don’t roll their hips and shake their ass like that for no reason. They just don’t.

And, in Noah’s experience, they don’t shove their hands down your fucking boxers for no reason, either.

And Santana, she does both, like, a whole fuck ton of a lot. And now she’s pissing and moaning because he’s asking if she’s gonna spit up on his dick? When he knows she slept with half of his teammates before preseason scrimmages were over? Yeah, no fucking dice on that one. They’re both in this for the same things.

Maybe she’s on the rag, he thinks, as he rummages through his locker for his history book -- his hand sticks to some old gum flattened against the bottom, and he thinks for a second that it’d be kinda cool to coat the whole fucking locker, keep the janitors busy over the summer -- and yeah, she’s probably on the rag.

It’s only after he slams his locker shut that he notices.

“What the fuck you staring at, pussy boy?” It comes out low, a growl, and he’s not even looking in the direction of the kid; he doesn’t have to.

“Is that really the best you can do?” Hummel sneers, like he practices the look in the fucking mirror, corners of his lips all turned out, just like the point of his nose. “You’ve been giving me that one since the seventh grade, Puckerman. One would think that you’d have come up with something better by now.”

And Noah, he’s about to say something epic, something really fucking good -- he’s about to, but the little cunt nugget prances past him, brushes his goddamn shoulder up against Noah’s left pec all... _fuck_.

“Then again, one would also think you’d have figured out that women don’t take well to being treated like your jock straps.” And the fucker, the _fucker_ , he leers like a little _bitch_ at Noah’s crotch before he smirks just a little bit harder and spits; “You know, dirty them up and then toss them aside.”

He swallows a little too hard; catches and burns at the back of his throat. “That’s rich, coming from you,” he shoots back, a little slow; he pretends like it doesn’t lose some of the effect; “D’ya even have a dick?”

If he tries to smirk into the insult, it’s nothing compared to the Cheshire fucking grin Hummel gives back with a wink -- a goddamn _wink_. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Fucker’s swaying his hips in jeans that he knows Quinn’d kill to squeeze her hips into, and Jee- _zus_ ; Hummel’s gone before Noah can think up a decent comeback.

Not like it even matters; it’s pancakes-and-sausages today in the cafeteria, and he’s gonna throw fairy-boy and his fall-fucking-collection in the goddamn dumpster so he can get his jacket full of syrup and sour milk.

Fuck -- even in his head, it sounds like the gayest kind of payback ever.

__________________________

 

The Great State of Ohio’s pretty much mother nature’s biggest fucking practical joke when it comes to climate, so pool season’s a little like what his mom always tells his sister about wearing white -- you get a few good months between Memorial Day weekend and Labor Day before it becomes really fucking ridiculous. Except that people in Ohio _are_ sort of ridiculous, and sort of fucking lazy too, and they wait until the water turns green and their liners are covered in fucking slime and there’s a goddamn dead forest floating on top of the pea soup that’s left of their pristine pool water before they even think about closing the damn things up.

Not that Noah cares so much: he can charge more to shock the motherfucker if it’s dirty, and price increases make housewives bitchy.

Bitchy housewives often lead to awesome hate sex. So he gets off and gets paid. Basically, it’s a win-win situation.

Come October, though, it’s less the smell of chlorine and more the stench of sweat -- ripe after practice with the sour-sweet smell of Gatorade mixing with dirty socks in his gym bag. It’s gone once he showers, but it’s kind of like when they serve fish sandwiches at lunch -- under the tartar sauce, the stench sticks around for fucking weeks.

He tosses pussy-boy Hummel into the garbage, like, ten times in two weeks -- mostly because there are no goddamn MILFs paying him to clean their pools and suck his cock, and he’s a little sexually frustrated, yeah, so shoot him -- and they’ve had fish, like twice within that time frame. So he knows what he’s talking about when it comes to that shit.

He doesn’t really know how it happens, the whole singing thing. He doesn’t know how he ends up in the choir room with Finn and a bunch of douche teachers and Coach, but it happens, and he’s a fucking stud, so it’s not like he has to worry. But when he leaves the choir room, he can smell it on himself -- like loserdom leaving its mark because he’s dancing like a fag on a stage: all brine and that sewage-shit smell of decaying, just under the musk of too much Axe. And maybe it’s just him, maybe not -- but it gets worse the more they practice, the more he’s there: he can smell it on himself like he can smell fry grease under Hummel’s chick perfume when he decides to the Princess needs a second reminder of his lameitude after school, because his morning dumpster dive apparently didn’t do the trick. But whatever: it’s like a dead skunk under your porch, or the aftermath of the Triple Bean Supreme at La Charreada, and they’re working on analogies and metaphors for the OGT in his English class and Noah feels like it’s relevant to something, even if he really doesn’t get why the word _Ampersand_ is more like _Semicolon_ than _Amsterdam_.

Even after the whole Acafellas thing runs its course: he feels like people can smell it, see it on him. He’s a stud, for fuck’s sake, but there’s only so far he can push.

He sprays his whole goddamn bottle of _Instinct_ on him when he gets into the locker room; glares when people choke against the cloud of aerosol in his wake.

__________________________

 

When Hummel joins the team, it’s pretty much the worst thing ever.

He can kick, sure, but he can’t throw worth a damn. And yeah, he kinda runs like a girl, but he’s fast as hell; Noah figures that’s probably a side-effect of being the whole school’s punching bag since forever. Basically, it’s a fucking joke, the whole thing, but even Noah can’t deny that the kid’s the only thing that’s keeping their record from the gutter. Again.

He just really kind of hates Hummel being around in general.

And it pisses him off, makes his skin hot and his breath shallow when Hummel’s there, his hands all up on the gear, his skinny little bitch frame too damn small for the pads, when Hummel’s talking on his fucking iPhone, tittering with god-knows-who after practice; when Hummel’s washing off the stench with his nose all wrinkled up over the dividers in the shower, after just about everyone else has taken off for the night.

Everyone except Noah.

It doesn’t make it any better, really, that he’s dealing with Quinn’s not-so-immaculate-conception. Not that it isn’t kind of funny that Finn’s fucking stupid enough to buy that coming in a goddamn hot tub’s gonna make a baby -- and Noah would know: he’s spent a lot of time cleaning out spas.

Jesus _Christ_ , that boy’s a moron.

But that’s basically the only funny thing about the entire situation, and that basically kind of sucks, because now Noah’s stuck thinking about money and something-natal-somethings that he overheard Quinn being all sad about in the hallway; now Noah’s thinking about high school and after high school, and the day his dad walked out, the look on the sorry bastard’s face the last time he closed their front door.

Plus his mom gets pissed that he’s later getting home, these days; says she’s gonna call Coach and tell him she needs him home to get dinner ready before his sister has to be at Girl Scouts.

He knows she won’t call, but still.

It’s basically all Hummel’s fault, anyway, for blurring the lines of where people are supposed to be, of where the world makes sense. It’s basically Hummel’s fault that Noah can’t even enjoy football anymore -- where he gets to run people down and break the occasional bone without the threat of detention or worse.

It’s Hummel’s fault that Noah’s questioning his sanity, that Noah’s carrying around an extra set of strings in his gym bag, keeping his guitar case locked in his trunk.

It’s probably Hummel’s fault that Noah breaks down and joins fucking Glee Club on top of everything, too. Somehow.

He’s not even going to comment on where his eyes ended up during that fucking Single Ladies dance. His helmet totally kept that under wraps.

And it’s not like anyone can even blame him. Looking from behind, Hummel’s ass has always looked kind of like a chick’s.

Yeah.

__________________________

 

He’s bored, mostly. They’re all fucking bored. That’s usually how these things start. They run out of cheap pizza and stolen beer, and they’re bummed after another mid-season loss, and they’re riled up on adrenaline and alcohol and they’re horny because they’ve watched too many hot chicks doing too many high fucking kicks in those cheerleading skirts, and they’re mostly just bored. They need a creative outlet, or something -- he’s pretty sure he’s heard Oprah saying that’s what troubled youth are lacking. His mom’s a big Oprah fan.

His gut’s raw, weak from too much pepperoni and more than his share of the Jack that Davison managed to nab from his dad’s liquor cabinet; maybe more than that, really, when they look at him expectantly, wait for him to take the lead -- not that he’d own to it, but yeah. It might be more than just the food.

So he makes the phone call, the old handset from Karofsky’s kitchen counter sweaty against his palm, his fingerprints like grease stains against the tissuey sheets of the Yellow Pages.

The guys, they’re laughing their fucking asses off as they listen for the ring that only Noah can hear, and when Fairy Boy’s dad picks up at the other end of the line, it takes him a moment to remember what he’s doing, why he’s doing it.

He only manages the ‘what’ part before he says the words:

“Your son’s a fag.”

It doesn’t make him feel any fucking better.

Neither does sucking what’s left in the container of garlic butter tucked in the corner of one of the empty pizza boxes, but whatever. He does it anyway, even if it’s too thick; bitter going down.

__________________________

 

He hates to admit it -- wouldn’t, if someone asked him, because that’s just fucking gay -- but more often than not, Glee’s pretty much the highlight of his day.

Because, like, pool season’s long gone, and while he’s got a few rich fucks on the edge of town with indoor setups he keeps up with after the snow flies, he’s pretty much free after classes let out. And he sure as hell doesn’t play basketball, because that’s just a lame fucking sport, and Noah doesn’t do fucking lame things.

So even if Glee was a total drag, it would at least give him something to do. So there’s that.

But sometimes, Noah can’t even really lie to himself about how much he really likes _being_ in Glee Club. Sure, some of the losers there make him want to gag a little sometimes, and he takes some shit from the boys in the weight room if Push It comes on the radio, even if he had absolutely nothing to do with that train wreck, but whatever. He does like Glee. He likes Glee a whole fuckton of a lot.

So when Mr. Schue tells them to each come prepared with a song for practice by the end of the week, Noah tells his mom he’s got a group project he’s got to stay late to work on, and he lingers in the hallway until everyone’s left and Schue’s locked the choir room door behind him before he picks it back open and sits with his guitar on the piano bench, picking out the notes for Stairway To Heaven and listening for the squeak of the janitor’s mop bucket rolling past the room so he doesn’t get thrown out before he gets the chords right.

He hums along to keep his place, places the lyrics in under his breath, in his head as he strums through, slips every so often, swears between fuck ups before trying again; gets lost in the swell of the music like he wants to, like he’d planned to, and thinks about the slow climb of the song, the story, the girl on the stairs, and he doesn’t hear, doesn’t notice when the mop bucket stops outside the door and the custodian peers in through the window, shakes his head with a rueful smile and moves on; doesn’t notice when the hinges rub just a little, caught up in the second verse, the buildup.

So he doesn’t see Hummel until he’s standing just a few feet from him, watching with a stare that’s kind of blank, kind of empty, kind of full of the things Noah doesn’t know how to recognize or pin down, and he’s ready to rip into him, tell the fucker to mind his own business and learn how to goddamn knock, but the words don’t come, and before he can force them, before he can rip them from his throat and out, Hummel’s coming closer, and it’s too late.

“Here,” Hummel reaches out toward the guitar, his fingers long -- his hand farther than it should be from the head, but his touch close, lingering like he’s waiting for Noah to slap him away, or wrench the instrument out of his reach, but Hummel doesn’t flinch, and Noah wonders if maybe he’s used to it; wonders if it’s just a given.

Noah wonders if the dive in the pit of his stomach has a name, or if he’s just fucking starving or something.

“Just a little,” and Hummel’s fingertips tweak the peg, quick and fierce and soft against his nail, and Noah can feel the G string tighten beneath the pad of his finger on the fret, can feel the way his gut moves when he swallows hard, brushes up against the body of the guitar in his lap.

“There,” Hummel says, keeps his hand on the head for a second too long and doesn’t look up; “That should be good.”

And it’s almost a whisper, and it shouldn’t be; it shouldn’t be, because it’s light enough that Noah can hear his own breathing, both their breaths in the quiet of the room, and beneath that there’s a beat, a rhythm that’s too fast for the goddamn song, more Ramble On than Stairway, like a bass line in the background, and Noah’s finger’s itch against the pick pinched tight between his fingers; he runs the thin plastic against the strings and hears it already; something’s right.

Hummel kind of half smiles at the space above his left ear, lips pressed thin as he flips his hair from his forehead and sucks in a sharp lungful of air, and Noah feels it, the way the room shifts around it, with the echo of the half-shaped sounds, and his fingers look small again when he grabs at the strap on his back, holds it close into his chest and lets out the breath, looks down at the toes of his shoes.

And it’s weird, for a lot of reasons.

The fact that Noah has absolutely no desire to deck the kid as he walks out, quiet as he came in, might be the weirdest.

__________________________

 

It’s not that Noah doesn’t feel guilty about the whole Quinn/Finn/Baby thing. He does. Kind of.

It’s just that, well, what’s he supposed to do? He’s tried to give Quinn money, he’s tried to be there for her, the best way he knows how. Is it his fault that he had needs? That he’s doing the best he can, and it’s just not enough for her crazy expectations?

Well, okay, maybe it’s a little bit his fault. But like, not mostly.

And the truth is, he’s basically fucked either way, because she tells him he’s trash when he tries to give her the gas money he weaseled off the losers in chess club, but then when she gets those sea-monkey x-ray pictures of the kid in her belly and he wasn’t there to hold her hand (and neither was Finny, because that ship’s fucking sailed already), well, then he gets the fucking ultrasound prints thrown in his face in the middle of the goddamn hallway.

He was actually thinking about going to class before that happened, too. No, really.

He lets out a long sigh and opens his eyes, shifts so that the skin of his neck pulls from the plasticy-leather of the sick-lounge in the school clinic, all olive green and fraying open at the seams; his head crinkles against the paper pillow he’s propped against, and he tries to find his favorite patterns in the water stains in the ceiling, distracts himself with the sounds of people walking outside the door, the clock on the wall counting the seconds.

Doesn’t really work; he thinks maybe that’s because he’s not really sure what he’s trying so hard not to think about.

The bell rings to signal that his math class is officially over, and he salutes Nurse Whatserface on the way out; he should probably know her name by now, but whatever.

It’s not all bad, though, he thinks as the soles of his shoes stick against the floor where someone -- not him, this time -- definitely spilled a slushy before homeroom. He’s still riding the high of the Sectionals win a little, because sure, they should have been shoo-ins anyway, but they pulled through pretty fucking awesomely. Not to mention he’s bench pressing 250, which is pretty decent for the off-season. And he filled up his frequent-eater card at Breadstix, and has an all-he-can-eat feast waiting for him tonight after school. So, you know, there are upsides.

But still.

The fourth period bell sounds, echoes harsh through the halls as they empty, and Noah mutters a quick _fuck_ under his breath when realizes that he’s gonna be late to Biology, and he used the last of the pad of hall passes he lifted from Miss Pillsbury’s office last week.

Goddamnit.

He detours back toward guidance, to see if he can snag another set while their fearless counselor’s out stocking up on hand sanitizer or something, but he doesn’t make it past the German hallway’s bathrooms before he hears it; not words, really, or noises, but... something, and it’s familiar.

He pushes open the men’s room door and sees exactly what he expects to.

Azimio’s got his thick fingers shoved up under Hummel’s jaw, cut against his neck tight enough that the skin strains, and the crease against his throat’s all red underneath, and white above the hold -- the heartbeat split in half around Azimio’s grip rippling like a current, fast and hard under the surface, and Noah doesn’t stop to think about it, doesn’t know where any of it comes from, except that even he has limits, and some things are just fucking _wrong_.

“Unless you’re planning on dropping to your damn knees and swallowing,” Noah says, kinda growls, just as the door to the bathroom swings shut behind him; “you’d better keep your hands off him.”

It’s not that he thinks it’s going to stop anything, exactly, make Azimio back down, but it does get his hands off the kid’s throat, and that’s something; when Hummel’s chest heaves and he gags on the breath he takes, yeah, it feels like something.

“Am I getting too handsy with your butt buddy here, Puckerman?” Azimio sneers as he turns to face Noah head on, and Hummel ducks away toward the sinks, presses himself against the wall in the corner, and Noah’s never liked Azimio, not since second grade when the little dickface pushed him off a swing and got a face full of Noah’s fist, for which Noah then got his first OSS. So it doesn’t really bear any consideration when he simply walks up to the douchenozzle and gets a good grip on the collar of his jacket, uses the leverage to shove him up against the wall.

“Not so badass all by your lonesome, are you Az?” he taunts; “Your wife leave you for greener pastures?” He smirks when Azimio looks almost confused at the jibe; “Or were you too rough with poor Dave last night, and he needed a personal day before he could sit comfortably in class?”

The smirk just gets bigger when the confusion goes away.

“Asshole!” Azimio spits, tries to force himself out of Noah’s hold, but the bastard’s all bark and no fucking bite when it comes to taking on someone his own size; all he’s got in his corner’s a cherry slushy, and fuck if that’s gonna stop Noah.

So he does what anyone would do to shut a stupid bastard up: he decks him hard enough to break his fucking nose.

There’s blood on the floor when Noah drops him, snarls when he stumbles: “Get the fuck out, or your face is gonna be the least of your worries.”

Azimio’s a dumbass, but he doesn’t have a death wish; he’s gone before Noah’s breath starts coming slower, before the adrenaline starts wearing off.

His eyes dart to the row of mirrors above the sinks, and he sees Hummel’s head bowed low over the farthest one, his knuckles white with the force of his grip on the chipped basin, his hair flung out to hide his eyes at the angle. He clears his throat without really thinking, doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, doesn’t know why he hasn’t just walked out already, or at least wiped the drops of Azimio’s nose-blood off of his wrist.

He doesn’t mean to look up -- he doesn’t mean _not_ to or anything, but it’s not intentional; catches Hummel’s gaze in the mirror -- hot and wrecked and tired.

“I don’t need a defender, Noah,” Hummel tells his reflection, his eyes wide and sad, angry almost as he stares too long before breaking the contact and looking down at the rusty drain cover.

Noah shrugs, wipes his hand on the tiling of the wall just inside the door, and scowls down at the red smear left on his skin as he walks back out and tries to make heads or tails of... everything.

__________________________

 

He’s a father. Well, like, not really. But yeah, really. He may never see that baby girl again, but she exists; she’s real, and she’s _his_. He can’t really wrap his head around that.

He looks out at the dusky skyline, too high above him to really make out, to see much past the concrete and brick, and when he breathes, the air is thick with smog, exhaust from semis roaring down 77 at one in the fucking morning -- homeless truckers on the road ‘til dawn, pushing the hours and fighting off sleep.

Noah sneaks a glance to either side as he steps toward the decorative shrubbery near the back door off the maternity ward. Reaching into the back pocket of his slacks with one hand, he pulls out a crushed box of Reds while he loosens his tie, fishes in his front pocket for his goddamn lighter.

He hears the mechanical swoosh of the automatic doors; doesn’t look up, just drags long before someone tells him to snuff it out, lets the taste linger in his mouth and the weight settle in his lungs before he lets it out, slow stream of grey in the spots of light, the swell of dark.

“Congratulations,” Hummel’s voice is quiet -- the scuff of his shoes on the concrete is louder -- and it sounds different when it’s so fucking faint; sounds heavy and raw -- a little scared, but deep. And Noah doesn’t say anything back; on a whim, he offers the cigarette held loose between unbalanced fingers, knuckles that are shaking ‘cause of the cold, nothing more.

To his surprise -- though, well, maybe not -- Hummel takes it, puts his lips where Noah’s were and breathes; doesn’t choke.

He drops the cigarette and twists ash beneath his heel as he exhales a cloud that dies on the breeze, and Noah doesn’t say anything; doesn’t complain that that was his last fucking smoke.

“You’d have been a decent enough dad,” Hummel adds, voice rough, and it’s wrong, kind of; husky, but not... not bad, really. Not really bad. “By which, of course, I mean that you may have lasted a good week before someone called Child Services on you.”

Noah tries not to laugh, tries not to clench his hands into fists at his sides; from Hummel, it’s almost like a compliment.

__________________________

 

Truth: the world does not revolve around Noah Puckerman. Fact is, the world revolves and just catches every sad sonfuvabitch up in the turning, knocking them on their asses and laughing, because just as they get back up, the world’s coming back again for round two.

Which, for Noah, means that the governor sucks, the economy’s shit, and his pool cleaning business just isn’t cutting it this summer. Not if he plans on keeping his unlimited texting plan. And getting that sweet body kit for his truck.

Long story short: he’s going to have to keep the stupid Sheets N’ Things gig.

It’s basically a useless job -- men are just not _meant_ to ever know how to fold a fitted sheet, it’s just the way things are -- but it pays well, and the Former Mrs. Schue thinks his abs are fantastic, so she pays him enough above minimum wage to make it tolerable, so he deals, and collects his paycheck every two weeks with a cheeky grin and the kind of wink that has an extra five bucks or so being tacked onto his hourly rate every pay period. It’s doable.

It’s how he runs into Hummel, in fact; how he breaks his streak of avoiding everyone from William McKinley except Mr. Ryerson for the whole first month-and-a-half of summer vacation.

He actually manages to hide from Hummel for a good half an hour by Windexing the makeup mirrors like, five times, but eventually, he has to pass by the wall of shower curtains on his mid-morning stock rounds. He literally walks right past Hummel, keeps his head down and his steps light like he’s trying to sneak out of the house after his mom’s asleep, but the kid doesn’t even flinch. Noah takes it as a sign that the Sheets N’ Things gods are on his side.

It’s not until after he’s scarfed down his lunch at his register between customers, a good three hours later, that he realizes he never saw Hummel leave the store.

Noah closes his lane and starts a lap around the store, counterclockwise from the collection of stainless steel trash cans near the front entrance, past the beds he sometimes tries to get hot customers to lay down on next to him just to “get a feel for the firmness,” around to where the picture frames and oversized art deco prints bleed into the curtain rods and give way to the bath towels when Noah spots Hummel, right where he’d been earlier in the day. In fact, Noah’s pretty fucking sure that the kid hasn’t moved a damn muscle -- his bitchy little pout is still the same, and his head’s tiled up toward the display on the wall just like he’d caught it out of the corner of his eyes before; his eyes are kind dead, kinda glazed, not that Noah had noticed that so much the first time around, really, but yeah.

“Dude,” Noah cuts through the quiet, leans up against a display of toothbrush holders and little dishes for bars of soap that no one would ever use, because who even uses bars of soap to wash their hands anymore? “You lost or something? Or should I call the fuzz to pick you up for loitering?”

Hummel doesn’t even blink, more kinda bites his lip and keeps staring at these shower curtain hooks made of fake copper and brass beads.

“Carole wants to redo the master bathroom.”

Hummel says it in kind of a whisper, kind of a hiss that’s a little strained, like he’s either mad as hell, or about to start bawling like a fucking girl; and Noah’s not what some pansy-ass douche-bags might call perceptive, but he’s not a complete idiot, and there’s more in that one sentence than even he can play dumb about.

He doesn’t want to stay; doesn’t feel right walking away -- so he sits on the edge of a shelf and just watches.

They both just watch, until the store closes for the night.

__________________________

 

Hummel comes back the next morning; Noah sees him, stopped at the entrance, barely moving as he kind of dances between the automatic doors, just moving enough to keep them from closing in on him.

Noah doesn’t think much about the way his lips quirk, watching Hummel’s hands run through his hair, watching the way his lips move soundlessly as he walks in, turns, walks back out, stops, does it again.

He flips the light off on his register and tells Courtney to cover for him -- not like there’s truckloads of people looking for curtain rods on a Wednesday morning or anything -- as soon as the hard click of Hummel’s mostly-flat boots give him away as he stalks toward the new display of sink fixtures.

He’s not really surprised when Hummel’s just standing there, same as yesterday, except this time he looks like blank and more... lost.

He’s a little surprised at how much he feels like he should maybe try to think about doing something to fix that.

“So, like,” he starts in, steps forward and doesn’t let it stop him when Hummel spins on his heel and stares at him like he grew an extra fucking head; “you said she’s redoing the bathroom, right?” He keeps walking, doesn’t look to see if he’s being followed like he should be. “We’ve got these...” he puts his hand on some really ugly fucking soap dispenser before he notices that, wow, even he can tell that’s really fucking ugly; he clears his throat and tries again, pointing out something pink and slightly-less ugly instead and hoping for the best before lowering his hand and giving half a shrug; “well, we’ve got some stuff.”

It yeah, it sounds really fucking stupid, and his palms might be kinda fucking sweaty in the pocket of his gay little employee apron, but Hummel grins -- not like he’s making fun of him or anything, more like the good kind of grin -- and he follows, and Noah gets commission for sales over a hundred bucks, so it’s all good.

__________________________

 

Because Sheets N’ Things actually does sell more than sheets, and happens to keep in stock some pretty mass-ass “things,” they have this delivery van -- an old Chevy Express with rust in the wheel-wells that looks like some creepy fucker should be leaning out the window of it, offering candy to children, but whatever.

He parks in Hummel’s driveway, thinks about how the house is pretty nice in the daylight, and how he probably should never have done that whole thing with the lawn furniture on the roof -- that was a bad call. He throws open the back doors, the grind of rust on the hinges carrying down the sidewalks as he sizes up the boxes shoved inside. Noah apparently never gave the Hummel family business the credit it deserved, because he’s pretty sure Kurt dropped close to two grand on this whole crazy project, all charged to Daddy’s Master Card.

He hears footsteps, and he’ll admit it: it kind of stops him short when he turns and sees Hummel in a pair of worn sweats and a white undershirt. ‘Cause, you know, it’s weird -- he’s always wearing girl clothes and shit.

“Thanks for driving these over,” Hummel says, and sounds halfway between suspicious and grateful as he folds his arms across his chest and throws his hip out a little to lean against the side of the van.

“Not a problem,” Noah says, because being here keeps him from having to do inventory. “Wanna hold open your front door so I can start unloading?”

“You don’t have to carry it all in, you know,” he counters as he walks toward the house Noah, a smaller box of god-only-knows-what clasped in his left hand as he reaches in from of them and opens the screen door with his right. “You can just get it all onto the porch, I’ll get it upstairs.”

“S’part of the package,” Noah grunts as he hauls the new sink basin and faucet, some marble shit or something, losing purchase on the awkwardly-shaped box for a second before he catches himself, gets his arms underneath the edges; “The delivery charges cover installation.”

And that’s a fucking lie, but Noah kind of tells enough of those for it to not really matter all that much. Probably.

Hummel just shrugs and leads him upstairs to the infamous bathroom in question.

It takes them about half an hour to get everything out and into the house, and Hummel kinda surprises Noah by handling some pretty weighty packages on his own; he’s panting a little bit harder than Noah is by the time they’re done, but it’s still kind of shocking that the scrawny little bastard can manage it.

“Water?” Hummel offers him when they get back down the stairs, grabbing a bottle of some fancy private-spring shit from his refrigerator and offering one to Noah. It kind of goes against everything he is, but he takes it and nods, almost like a thank you, except he doesn’t really do that.

“So,” Noah says around the mouth of his bottle, glances up and catches the bob of Hummel’s throat as he swallows quick and long, and shudders a little, ‘cause there’s a breeze or something, and he’s sweaty, goddamnit. “Looks like your dad’s gonna be busy for the next couple weeks, getting everything put together and connected right.”

Hummel sets his water down and huffs a strangled sort of laugh, though it’s not the funny kind, it’s the pissy kind. “By the time he gets home from the garage, he eats, watches Deadliest Catch, and falls asleep on the couch within the span of an hour.” When he leans back against the counter, hands propped behind him as he heaves a dramatic, girly sigh, Noah spares a thought to wonder if the shirt he’s wearing came from the kid’s department, because it sure as hell doesn’t fit Hummel’s chest for shit. “It’ll be me doing most of the legwork, I think,” he says, sounds really fucking bitter, and hey, Noah can relate on that front. “I guess I could consider it a housewarming present.”

Noah takes another swig from his water, and it’s kinda sweet, tastes weird on his tongue and warm as it runs down his throat, even if it’s icy from the back of the fridge. “Aren’t you gonna need an extra set of hands for some of that stuff?” he asks, doesn’t really know why. Doesn’t think about how that’s happening more often lately.

“Ideally,” Hummel shrugs, the motion spreading his arms wider as he leans heavier on the countertop, “but I’ll make do.” He ducks his head and twists the cap back onto his bottle. “Won’t be the first time.”

“Dude, I said installation was included, didn’t I?” Noah says, a little more harshly than he means, than he can explain as he tosses back the rest of the water and grimaces at the sugar-lace of the taste, letting the plastic creak under his grip as he crushes it in his fist. “You want a hand or not?”

And Hummel, he just stands there for a second, more than a second; a lot of fucking seconds, if the number of slow pulls of the cotton of his shirt against the way he sucks in breaths is anything to judge by, and Noah’s about ready to just say fuck it and walk out and hope that Howard’s done with the inventory and Noah can just hop on returns or some shit when he gets back to the store when Hummel finally decides to say something back.

“Umm,” he starts, his eyes all frowny and his forehead all bunched together, like he’s confused, except Noah’s pretty sure what he said was fairly straightforward. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

And Noah really wants to shoot him a smartass remark at that, something snarky that he can’t really think of right now, but whatever; the kid sounds kind of like he doesn’t trust Noah at all, but also kinda... lonely. Hopeful. Like his little sister sometimes sounds when she asks Noah to play with her stuffed animals.

So what he does instead is give a tight kind of smirk and shake his head; and the thing of it is, he really doesn’t mind at all.

__________________________

 

As it turns out, Hummel’s not entirely useless with his hands, and they work alright together, getting the lighting fixtures wired right; the plumbing’s a different story, but they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it. Point is that the whole thing takes them longer than a day or two, longer than a week -- and before he knows it, Noah finds the afternoons after his morning shifts and pool rounds mostly taken up by helping Kurt fucking Hummel remodel his dad and maybe-soon-to-be-step-mom’s bathroom.

“Okay, try it now,” Noah says when he climbs back up the stairs from turning the water back on so they can see if Kurt’s iPhone app gave them legit instructions for hooking this shit up.

The way the water shoots out at a freakish angle, soaking Hummel’s shirt before he manages to turn it off again, means that it totally worked. Sort of.

Noah snickers at the drowned-rat look that Kurt’s got going on, the way he looks disgusted as he wrings his shirt out into the basin while they reposition the spigot and tighten it up until the water flows quick and straight from the faucet, and yeah, it’s basically what a five year old would do, but Noah can’t help but flick a palmful of water at Hummel’s face just as he’s got himself all dry-ish.

The glare he gets shot for that is almost murderous, so the obvious response is to flick more water.

Hummel’s face twists up, classic bitch-look, and Noah thinks for a split second that he might be punched in the face or something, before Kurt swipes his hands under the stream and hoists a good slash up into Noah’s face, right up his nose so he splutters a little, and Hummel, the fucker, he giggles. Fucking _giggles_.

And Noah -- Noah just kind of swallows down a grin and runs a wet hand over his head, where the hair’s starting to grow back enough that there’s some fuzz, and he toggles the hot and cold knobs to make sure everything’s working right before he figures they can officially cross the sink off of their to-do list.

Which brings him to the slightly fucked-up thought that he’s thinking of Hummel and him as a ‘we.’

Which then makes him look at Hummel to make sure it’s all real.

Which then leads him to notice the little wrinkle above Kurt’s top lip when he grins; the little smudges of water at the corners of his eyes, in his lashes -- long lashes. Chick lashes.

Except not.

He shakes the thought away quick, fools himself into thinking it was never there -- he’s getting good at that.

It’s basically how every afternoon works, give or take, so he’s had lots of practice.

Eight times, no, more like nine times out of ten, he stays for dinner. Hummel’s a decent cook, and when he doesn’t make the food, Carole whips something up after work, and Noah’s used to her cooking by now, so it works: he ends up sandwiched between Kurt and Finn at the dinner table, and sometimes it’s awkward -- most of the time it is, for a while -- but after Noah steals thirds from Finn for the fifth time in a row, like he has since they were kids, Giganteen stops being so bitchy. It’s not like they talk, really, more than the necessary “Pass the potatoes, loser,” but Finn does actually laugh when he manages to wrestle the last roll from the basket before Noah can get his hands on it.

The flip side of that coin is that, when Noah’s the one who gets the last ear of sweet corn, he usually doesn’t even think before he sort of bumps shoulders with Kurt at his side in celebration of his victory.

Carole offers to pay him for his time -- says he’s saving her the work of doing it herself, says she’d be dead on her feet if she had to try and finish the remodel after working doubles half the week; he says _no thanks, ma’am_ without really thinking it through, really thinking about anything.

It should be a sign, probably; he’s known Carole since he was like, seven, and he’s never called her _ma’am_. Like... never.

He swings by the 7/11 and buys a six-pack with his fake ID before he heads home.


	2. Chapter 2

Predictably - fucking _predictable_ \-- it all starts with a goddamn slushy.

School kind of sneaks up on him, really -- he turns in his apron at Sheets N’ Things, and suffers a slap on the ass from Alice, the creepy night manager, because it’s officially not harassment anymore, or something. He thinks he could probably bust her anyway, but it’s not all that high on his priority list. He stops by for a quick water reading at the Rutherfords, and sneaks in a quickie with the lovely missis and her ginormous rack, and before he knows it, it’s Wednesday, and they’re back to William fucking McKinley again.

It all feels kind of anti-climactic, really; they didn’t have football before classes started, because Coach Tanaka bailed and they were still looking for his replacement, and he’d been keeping busy all through August, what with the new line of bed linens that Kathy Something Whatserface released and the five billion coats of paint Kurt insisted they slap on as a finishing touch for the master bath. His bank account’s actually got money in it, for once, but he’s kind of bummed that he never got that body kit on his truck.

Whatever, that’s what weekends are for.

So nothing really seems out of the ordinary; he spins his locker open, checks to see if his chewing gum collection’s still there, stuck to the metal (totally is) -- slams it shut just as fast without leaving anything behind, thinks he might hit the weight room instead of doing first period chemistry, ‘cause it’s the first day and he can probably still pull off the “I got lost” routine if he tries hard enough, maybe, not that anyone even cares around here, but--

And then, he’s spitting cold, syrup-coated nuggets of crushed up ice onto the floor, where he’s dripping lime green all over the place like he just got slimed on Nickelodeon or some shit.

God-fucking- _damnit_.

“Hey there, Springsteen,” Rossner, the fucking useless tight end, crows, like he actually knows what the hell he’s saying, and hey -- being mocked as the Boss is actually kind of a compliment, or would be, if he weren’t blinking slush from his eyes and still sputtering like an idiot, trying not to suck the smaller bits of ice up his nose as he starts to seethe -- “still singing with your Nude Erections fag friends this year?” And thank god the assface is far enough from him that he doesn’t actually _touch_ Noah when he jerks his hips in demonstration of what he obviously thinks a guy should do with his nude erection -- proof in itself that the douche hasn’t gotten laid yet -- because if Rossner’d _touched_ him? Noah might have actually killed him.

“Fuck off,” Noah growls, hocks back slushy and saliva and spits as close as he can to the side of the dickhead’s face without getting flat out busted for it. Rossner’s eyes widen, bulge a little, and before he can do anything, Noah’s shoved him into the wall, fist pulled back in a clear threat, and when Rossner’s hand unclenches around the empty slushy cup, when the styrofoam falls flat and hollow against the floor, it’s almost satisfying.

He can feel the eyes of everyone around them, the crowd that always gathers, that watches and waits in this fucking place, waiting to pounce on the loser, the winner, whoever -- he can feel them watching, catches pale skin and straight hair out of the corner of his eye, and for reasons unknown he lets his grip slip a little, lets his hand fall and lets Rossner fall too -- he hadn’t realized he’d had the bastard up off of the floor like that, kicking his ankles out like a little girl.

“What’s wrong, Puckerman?” he hears Rossner say, a little out of breath; feels his fingers dig into his palms as he tries to walk away; tries, because he can’t get suspended again, he can’t get expelled, he can’t get sent to fucking juvie; “Those fairy choir kids cut your dick off? Your balls shrivel up from singing like a queer?” He hears snickering, and not just from behind; he hears it from the sides, from the space in front of him he can’t even see, because he’s already spinning back around, already taking the step; “Can’t even--”

His fist is in that fucker’s face, catching him in the front teeth before he can even close his mouth around the next word.

“Got something to say?” Noah yells in Rossner’s face, drags him up bloody, but not too broken and throws him hard against the wall again; the laughter’s gone, and the gasp of their little audience is echoing; he grins as Rossner flinches away. “You say it to my face, bitch.”

He lifts him a little higher off the floor by the collar of his jersey, lets him fall hard on his ass before he turn again and really walks away, leaves a goddamn _impression_ , even as his shoes stick, green and tacky to the floor.

It’s considerably less badass than he was hoping for, but whatever. He just throws a couple of extra growls at the rubberneckers he passes, covers the squelch of his sneakers with the sound.

He doesn’t see Hummel, hidden in the little niche with the drinking fountain, until the kid’s hands are on his bicep and his mind goes fucking blank. He thinks he might blink, like, twenty times before he realizes that there’s slushy stuck to the corner of his eye and it actually kind of hurts to do the blinking thing in the first place.

“Come on, Noah,” he hears Hummel say, all soft-like, girly, except he seems really close, and yeah, he’s kinda feminine, but Noah’s never noticed the way his jaw’s kind of hard, the way his Adam’s apple juts out when he swallows, runs critical eyes up and down Noah’s moss-tinged frame. “Your scalp’s going to turn green if you don’t get it out.”

And yeah, that’s a problem -- chick’s don’t usually dig guys with green mohawks. Or else... not slushy-green mohawks.

There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall, but Kurt doesn’t stop there, and it’s weird, because Noah doesn’t think about asking questions, or stopping on his own -- he just follows, keeps his head down, tastes sweet lime on his lips and bites down hard on his tongue to keep it all in, whatever it all is.

He doesn’t really pay all that much attention to where they’re going, or where they stop: it’s the science hallway, he knows that, and once Kurt holds the door open and waves him into the last room on the left, he thinks that maybe he remembers having Earth Science freshman year here -- he might have actually gone to it once or twice, even, but now it’s looks like no one’s touched the room in ages, the counters are so caked with dust and what looks like that nasty gooey crap the teachers make them prep petrie dishes with.

So yeah -- fucking slushy.

“Sit,” Hummel tells him, voice low and rough, almost hidden by the scrape of the chair he drags toward the deep stainless-steel sink, digging ruts against the tiling on the floor. And it’s like Noah doesn’t even have a set of balls, really, because he just does it. Blinks against the lemon-lime stick that’s drying on his skin and goddamn sits like he’s told to.

Hummel’s got soft hands, he finds out; real soft hands, as he tips Noah’s head back by the line of his jaw and tests the water running from the spout as it sputters from disuse and shitty plumbing, and Noah doesn’t even move, doesn’t even breathe, and he thinks maybe he forgot running here, forgot sprinting for his fucking life, because his heart’s jumping like a goddamn jackrabbit, and the not-breathing thing’s starting to become an issue.

“Turn your head,” Kurt says, and it’s weird -- maybe just Glee infiltrating his brain -- but the tone it’s said in almost sounds like it matches, goes along with the water as it hits the metal basin, detoured where Kurt’s hand it guiding the spray closer to Noah’s head as he eases, tilts farther into it.

The water, of course. Not, like, Hummel’s hand.

But that’s before his eyes slide closed when Kurt’s palm slides across his scalp, teases the lines of corn-syrup from the skin and slowly rubs it from his hair, fingers slipping across his face where he got the worst of it off already, caked on his sleeve. Kurt pools water between his hands and lets it fall around his forehead, wash against his eyes to get the gunk off his lashes, and that’s why his eyes are closed, of course. That’s why.

Jesus, he used to be a good liar.

And then the breathing thing, it comes back quick and painful, short and dry in his lungs, just when Kurt stretches, gets real fucking close with his chest brushing Noah’s nose as he reaches for the paper towel dispenser and grabs, wipes the wetness from Noah’s face like Noah’s a fucking two-year-old, and fuck, but Noah doesn’t even think about it, doesn’t even stop it.

“There,” Hummel says, like it’s nothing, like Noah’s not real sure he’s going to pass out or kill something in the next ten seconds. And yeah, maybe -- probably -- it started before the slushy. Maybe it never had to really start. Maybe Noah needs to stop sitting on the couch when his mom’s watching those sappy made-for-TV romances on Oxygen -- maybe then he’ll stop sitting around thinking about things like endings and beginnings like a little bitch. 

Hummel walks out first, Noah can’t see his face; and he’ll never know if Kurt saw the wood Noah’d sprouted by the time he was finished washing the corn syrup out of Noah’s hair.

Fuck.

__________________________

 

“Making up” is a pansy ass way of saying it, so no -- Noah did not “make up” with Finn after the whole Quinn deal. They’re cool now, though. Or else, cool enough.

And, he guesses, he kind of has to thank Kurt for the whole “cool” thing in general.

Not like Kurt did anything about it outright, but with Noah spending a good chunk of his summer in and out of the Hummel-Hudson household, it was a lot harder to avoid Finn on a regular basis. Mostly, 

But it’s whatever, really; all he knows is that the new season’s started, and he’s got a place to hang after practice when Santana’s not putting out.

And yeah, Finn’s still his best friend. But that’s just details. Whatever -- like he said.

So basically, after school or glee or football, they crash at Finn’s, play Madden, chill out. Sometimes they watch OSU kick some ass, because Tressel’s got a hell of a lineup again this year; sometimes they flinch through the Browns being absolutely fucking terrible; sometimes Burt joins them, or Kurt stands behind the couch for a while and huffs at their abysmal taste in pastimes, and it’s generally better than going home and watching some dumbfuck show on Nickelodeon with his stupid sister, so he’s not complaining.

When Kurt stands right behind him, the soft material of his sweater close at the back of Noah’s head; when he leans his elbows on the back of the sofa so that Noah kind of feels the heat of breath when he sighs; yeah, he’s not fucking complaining.

__________________________

One time, Noah even gives in and plays some Halo, after Finn pops it in and tells him it’s pretty sweet; Noah’s pretty sure it’s dweeby, though, and he says as much as the game loads.

“That’s what I thought too, man,” Finn says as he flips through the menu screen and sets up the game mode. “I hadn’t played it before, but then Kurt had it, so I gave it a try, and it’s pretty badass. I mean, it’s a little nerdy, but yeah, s’good time.”

And it’s not half bad, Noah will admit, even after he’s had his ass handed to him. Sweet graphics, great explosions, and that Master Chief dude looks pretty awesome. And Jesus, but that Cortana chick’s _tits_.

“You should see Kurt, though,” Finn tells him, “he’s like a fucking Halo master, man. Whips me every freaking time.”

Noah finds himself wanting to see that, actually, so he goes out on a limb: “He around?”

“Probably,” Finn says, glances at the clock and rolls his eyes; “It’s seven, time for his moisturizing routine.”

Noah smirks, glances after Finn as he stands from the cushion he’d been sprawled over in front of the television and goes to call downstairs, a quick scream of Kurt’s name and a slam of the door.

“He won’t come up if he knows we just want him for this,” Finn explains before flopping back on the carpet and reaching with his crazy-long arms to grab for another controller. “Got to make him wonder if it’s something important.”

As if on cue, the basement door’s swinging open, and Noah’s glad he finished his pop and hadn’t grabbed for more Ruffles like he’d wanted to just a second ago, because he’s kind of choking on straight air as it is, and food really wouldn’t have made the whole breathing thing any easier.

Kurt’s face is flushed red from where he apparently had been rubbing in his whatever-girly-cream, and his eyes are wide as he glances around to figure out what was urgent enough to warrant him pausing from his regimen so suddenly that he, you know, couldn’t even bother to put a shirt on.

So yeah, about that breathing thing.

Noah swallows, and _fuck_ , it’s not like he hasn’t seen a shirtless dude before, because he plays fucking sports, right, they all get dressed together, he accidently gets an eyeful of someone’s junk at least once a day, and it’s just what happens, no big deal.

But... mother _fucker_ , Hummel’s lily-white, scrawny chest with the ribs showing and just that little bit of muscle at the abs is doing things to him that he doesn’t even know where to start in labeling in them as fucked, _fucked_ , and ‘Holy shit, that’s _FUCKED_.’

“What did you need?” Kurt asks, and he folds his arms across himself, just below his pecs, and Jesus H. _Christ_ , it’s so goddamned _wrong_ that’s Noah’s mouth is dry like a desert, but there is it.

“Halo,” Finn grins, dopey and hopeful, like it’s an olive branch, because they’re still a little weird with each other, even Noah can tell that much; and Kurt’s rolling his eyes and walking back down the stairs when Finn calls out after him.

“Noah doesn’t think you can beat him!”

The footsteps down the stairs pause, and Kurt’s head pops back up around the doorjamb.

“Is that true?” he asks, eyes narrowed at Noah, who shrugs, because it’s not like he’s got a better plan, and while the part of him that wants Hummel to go get a fucking shirt on is loud and obnoxious and desperate in his brain, there’s a louder and bitchier part that wants to see that shit again. Like, right now.

Loud and bitchy wins the day, because Hummel’s back up the stairs in record time, settling on the couch and crossing his legs, hugging a throw pillow to him and covering most of his skin, but Noah knows what’s behind it, now, and that’s... distracting.

“I’ve got ten minutes to spare before I have to exfoliate,” he informs them pointedly as he activates his controller and eyes them both up shrewdly. “We should be done by then.”

Finn chuckles, and switches them from campaign to versus.

Kurt hangs them both out to dry with a good three minutes to spare.

__________________________

 

Noah comes by a lot of things honestly.

He gets his height from his mom’s side, though not from his mom; it skipped her. He gets his sarcasm from his dad’s dad, who he’s never met, but his mom assures him that it’s true. He has his grandma’s smile, and he can see that. He’s got his granddad’s hair, which is why he shaves it.

And his ability to make excuses for the things he does in order to avoid his own feelings on just about everything, and his capacity for basically denying reality in general, comes from his mom. For her, it was a defense mechanism, after his dad split. For Noah, though, it’s kind of just second nature.

You seriously cannot blame him for this shit.

See, okay, it’s like this: he’s at Finn’s, because that’s where he usually is. He gets the mail, not because he’s a nosy fuck, but because, contrary to popular belief, he can be polite when he wants to, and he’s walking up the drive anyway, and Finn’s too much of a failure at life in general to even think about doing his mom the favor, so Noah’s gonna do it for him, because bros get each other’s backs like that.

And it’s not that he’s snooping, or looking for anything in particular; it’s mostly just that he’s looking, you know, with his _eyes_ \-- not something he can really turn off, you know -- and so he really just sees it by accident, the big shiny envelope with the printed-on pictures of prep boys in jackets, with the big red lettering and the metallic gold seal on the back with an eagle or a coat of arms or some shit and a return address for that Dalton Academy place where the rich kids go.

And it’s addressed to a Mr. Kurt Hummel.

Noah leans against the kitchen counter as Finn makes Kool-Aid, because the crazy kid’s like five years old underneath his massive teenage disguise, drops everything but the Dalton envelope onto the table and stays where he is, staring at it, as Finn dumps his first attempt down the sink because he forgot to add sugar, and makes another packet of the stuff instead of being a normal person and just adding the goddamn sugar to the first batch.

Noah never really understood how Finn managed to survive in the world on a daily basis; just another wonder of the universe, really.

Finn’s pouring himself a glass of his second-round with the drink powder when Kurt strolls through the door, dressed in something that looks like a dress and a sweater and has a belt and is purple -- bright fucking purple -- but that’s not really the important point, because Noah’s still got the envelope in his hand, and he’s really not sure how he’s going to manage to say what he wants to say about it, when he has absolutely no idea what it is he wants to say in the first place.

“Here,” he ends up just kind of shooting his arm out as Kurt walks by him to grab for the pitcher of iced tea in the fridge and blocking his path with the envelope in his hand. Kurt looks at him strangely, one eyebrow raise in that little arch thing he does as he takes the thing and looks at it, a kind-of-smile curving around his lips and lighting his eyes as he tells Noah thanks and slides a fingers under the seal, walking out of the kitchen without his iced tea.

Noah really does not like that kind-of-smile thing that Kurt just did.

So when they’re all kicking back on the couch watching Deadliest Catch, Burt on the far side, next to Kurt, who’s next to Noah, and then Finn in the chair, Noah may or may not kind of shift his weight in a way that makes his leg brush up against Kurt’s -- because the couch isn’t _that_ big -- so he can look Kurt straight in the eye when he asks:

“So what’s the deal with that Dalton stuff, man?”

Kurt blinks at him, like he’s trying to figure him out, before he just kind of shrugs and hugs his arms around himself a little tighter. “Just trying to feel out my options,” he says. “They have a,” he swallows, and Noah thinks that’s fishy, the way he does it; “a lot of opportunities.”

And Noah doesn’t quite know what Kurt means by that, exactly, except that he really doesn’t like the idea of Kurt going anywhere that isn’t William McKinley. 

He doesn’t like that idea at all.

So Noah does what he always does when he doesn't like something: he beats it into submission with his own fuckin’ hands. Which, in this case, means asking his mom about songs that a dude with Kurt’s voice would rock for a solo. Except yeah, okay, he tells her it’s for a girl, because he needs songs for _Kurt’s_ voice, and it’s really just practical.

Within a week, Schuester’s on board with his idea for doing a medley of alternative female vocalists, and the guys and the girls are rocking out a wicked blend of Regina Spektor, Alicia Keys, and Brandi Carlile, with Kurt Hummel fucking owning the solo on a reworked rendition of Joni Mitchell’s ‘Both Sides Now.’ And if that’s not a fucking opportunity, Noah doesn’t know what is.

And afterward, Kurt does a different kind-of-smile thing that Noah kind of likes.

Except by the end of the week, Noah’s getting his stuff together and heading home, because Finn’s conked out on the couch like a douche, and Noah’s got homework he should probably think about doing, and just as he’s passing the dining room, he catches Burt’s voice on a sigh: “It’s a _lot_ of money, Kurt.”

And it’s probably rude, but when he glances in, catches a glimpse of Burt and Carole and Kurt all sitting around the table they only ever use for family dinner, he sees it laid open on the tabletop: the goddamn Dalton book that came in the mail. 

“I know,” Kurt says, voice small, resigned before he sucks in a breath and tries one last time. “But it’s a no-tolerance policy, and it’s enforced, and I-” he stops, and his eyes go to the ground, and Noah, well, Noah slips out before they see him.

And maybe the next morning, he starts ramming a couple more fuckfaces into lockers when they start talking shit; maybe he serves a few extra detentions and an ISS as a result over the weeks that follow. And maybe _he’s_ the one they start calling fag-ass and gay boy, but he can deal. He’s a tough nut to crack.

And maybe he’s doing this for reasons he doesn’t want to think about. Maybe he’s more than just invested in Glee Club’s future, maybe he wants more than just Kurt’s voice to stick around. Maybe he doesn’t have asthma or allergies and those weird breathing issues he’s been having aren’t really like, pneumonia or something. Maybe he doesn’t really have ADHD, and he just stares off in Hummel’s direction so often because, well, just because.

Maybe he’s in denial, sure. But _maybe_ , it’s just as possible that he’s being totally self-aware, and it’s really just an itch-needing-scratching kind of situation. 

He’s just not usually that lucky.

__________________________

 

Kurt and Finn still share the basement bedroom -- and Noah’s not above ragging on Gigan-teen about it all the fucking time.

Finn’s fishing around for a Sports Illustrated he’d wanted to show Noah something in, and Noah’s really just nosing around, killing time as Finn cusses his bed frame out when he bangs his head against it for the third time -- kid’s just not meant for crawling under the thing, really; he peers over the divider that separates Finn’s part from Kurt’s and smirks at the little table of girly face shit propped up by the wall. His mom, and hell, his sister Sara, too -- they’d both probably kill for that setup.

When he glances down, though, and sees the Dalton paperwork folded in half and shoved in the trash can next to the table -- between an empty bottle of eye gunk and a bunch of cotton squares -- he doesn’t even bother examining his motives for the whole Project Keep-Kurt-Around thing; he just counts that shit as a win. 

__________________________

 

It’s kind of not at all planned when Noah asks Finn is he wants to hit a movie on Friday night. He’s just bored, and he’s doesn’t feel like getting buzzed, or playing Xbox, or staying at home, really, because there’s an iCarly marathon on, and he’ll be damned if he sits through that shit. He wants to get out for the evening, is all.

He doesn’t expect Finn to tell him he’s already hitting a late showing of _Wall Street 2_ with Kurt, ‘cause they both grew up watching the original VHS until the tape stretched and it was all screen-static and warped dialogue. 

Which is so fucking _lame_ it’s not even funny, and Noah basically wants to know why in the hell he’s friends with these people in first place, and he wants to know it right the fuck now.

And that’s exactly what he tells them, too, as he’s tagging along and paying for his overpriced ticket and a tub of popcorn that is, in fact, the equivalent of highway robbery, which in turn is equivalent to a full day’s work of cleaning pools in mid August.

Which is also the extent of his math skills, but whatever. That’s not even the point.

The popcorn’s kind of burnt, which pisses him off, and he doesn’t know how in the hell he ends up sitting _between_ Finn and Kurt, when it was their little date he was crashing, but whatever. Finn shoves his big fucking hand into the tub and takes big fistfuls of popcorn every so often, to which Noah says: “You’re paying for T-Bell after this, man.”

But then there’s Kurt; Kurt who leans in like he doesn’t even know that he’s even doing it at all -- Kurt with slim hands and soft knuckles that brush against Noah’s wrists when he grabs for the popcorn without asking, takes one kernel at a time, so he’s always in the way, always grabbing, and Noah, well: Noah’s sitting up straight as a goddamn rail, tense and hot, even if the theater's cold with the A/C.

Every five fucking _seconds_ , when Hummel decides he needs more goddamn popcorn.

By the end of the movie, Noah couldn’t actually tell you what happened in it, except that Shia LaBeouf was there without any Megan Fox to gawk at.

__________________________

 

Noah doesn’t know from experience, but he’s pretty sure this is exactly what people mean when they say they’re having an identity crisis. Or when they say they’re having a panic attack; he suspects that it’s the same difference.

Because it’s not like he’s a fucking virgin, and he’s not a fucking _girl_. He’s not supposed to be thinking about anyone like they’re special, like they’re the only person in a room or some rom-com bullshit. Noah Puckerman does not swing that way.

He _doesn’t_.

Except that he totally and completely goddamn _does_ , and it’s fucking _insane_ , and he feels like he’s going to die of a heart attack when Hummel comes out of the bathroom in just a fucking towel when Noah’s chilling at their place while Finn talks Rachel down from some drama freak out; he’s at home three hours later, and he can still count the jump of his pulse at his throat without touching, just by sitting still and waiting for his skin to shudder.

He takes a cold shower and shoots his load fast enough to be humiliating, and it’s when his body’s still tense, and his heart’s still running a marathon all up in his ribs, that he realizes this isn’t like everything else, isn’t like everything he’s done before.

He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, just that it’s new, and he sure as hell doesn’t like it, doesn’t recognize himself like this: strung out and mind-fucked like a little swooning bitch, or something.

So yeah: panic attack, identity crisis. Same shit, different name.

__________________________

 

Of course they rocked Sectionals, but Regionals is kind of a surprise.

To celebrate, Schue takes them down to Cleveland for some godawful cultural experience at Playhouse Square which really isn’t as bad as Noah figured it would be, but still. He’s obligated to bitch about it, if he plans on keeping his man card. Or something.

They catch an early performance of Billy Elliot at the State Theatre -- which is basically just as gay as Noah expected it would be, considering, but it’s pretty decent, nonetheless -- and they splurge on dinner at a bona-fide Michael Symon restaurant, which Noah can appreciate because his mom digs on _Iron Chef_ , mostly because she’d never been much of a cook herself, and Noah likes to watch and laugh at the Chairman dude, ‘cause he’s funny.

Really, he is.

They plan on hitting the Rock Hall, but Mr. Schue got the hours wrong, and it’s closed by the time they make it down to the North Shore; Noah’s never been there, but Sam tells them all that it’s cool, but no big deal that they’ll have to skip it, so they’ve got a good twenty minutes to kill before the bus swings by and picks them up early.

Which sucks, because even if it’s, like, the end of March, it’s still really freaking cold. And well, Lake Effect’s a bitch, so there’s still a dusting of snow on the pavement leading up to the beach.

Noah cups his hands and blows hot into them, rubs them together and huddles closer into his coat, glances around and sees where Finn’s wrapped up around Rachel on the steps, and Sam’s all crazy ‘round Quinn where they’re leaning up against the glass panes of the building. Everyone else is milling about, mostly paired off, and he catches just about everyone between the crosswalk and the Hall itself, except one.

He spots Kurt by the bright yellow-ish color of the peacoat he’s wearing by some crazy designer person who’s name Noah can’t sound-out to get right, leaning against the railing down by the coast, kicking idly at the chains blocking off the frosty sand and the surf. He strides down toward the water, figuring he’ll just take a look at the horizon on the Lake, it’s probably kinda cool.

Which it is: the ice is all coming apart, mostly melted, but there are still some jagged edges, all crashed and broken in upon itself; but that’s not what he notices when he gets close enough to see. What he notices, first, is that Kurt’s shivering like a goddamned leaf.

Which, he automatically decides, is a pretty bad thing.

“Your Armani chick coat’s not real warm, I take it?” he asks, a little snide, because he can’t really help it -- it’s just how he is.

Kurt huffs at him, grins, but his teeth chatter. “Please. This is Burberry.”

“Whatever,” Noah shrugs, lets the motion loosen his own jacket from around his shoulders, and just, you know, does what his mama raised him to do.

He gives the girl -- or, you know, kinda girly guy -- his coat.

Kurt doesn’t do anything, at first. Just kind of stands there, just a little in font of Noah, a little to the side, swimming in the letterman jacket and tense, not really breathing -- Noah can tell because his shoulders aren’t moving, and there’s no cloud of breath puffing from his mouth every couple of seconds, and _fuck_ , it really _is_ that cold out here, because Noah’s already starting to feel the goosebumps on his arms, and the tingle in his spine as he fights the jitters, and he almost regrets giving Hummel his jacket at all until --

Until Hummel turns, and he’s all bright eyes and pouty frown, and his scarf’s wrapped up around his neck so that just the stark-white of his face is visible, all flushed at the cheeks and the tip of his nose at the cold, and Noah -- he’s gotten used to it being hard to breathe sometimes, when he looks at Hummel; he’s adapted to the dry-mouth thing by carrying a water bottle in his backpack, and he’s become a fucking pro at the ‘what goes through your crazy hormone-addled mind in the shower when you rub one out stays in the shower when you rub one out’ -- but this, whatever it is, this is different.

This, right here, is that panic attack feeling all tight in his gut and his chest and it’s a fucking problem, is what it is, because he can’t think when it’s like this, when nothing makes sense and he can’t talk himself down and he can’t make decisions and he does stupid shit like leaning in to Kurt, who’s warm, and leaning down to his mouth, which is all full and pink and wet and chapped and _fuck_ \-- and then pressing his goddamned lips to Hummel’s like it’s not an accident, like he actually fucking _means_ it.

He cannot be trusted with his own well-being when it’s like this. He cannot be held accountable for what it is he does.

And Hummel doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, not when Noah comes close or touches or even when he backs away; Hummel doesn’t move. And there _is_ a God, Noah’s real fucking sure of it now, because the bus gets there and saves his ass at just that moment, and he’s turning tail and slipping in next to Finn, because suffering Rachel’s death glare and stealing her seat next to her boyfriend is actually totally preferable to dealing with the wide-eyed, completely unreadable, vaguely unnerving stare that Hummel’s got trained on him just about now.

And Noah, well, he’ll take the creepy girl glower over thinking about the big gay kiss he just laid on Kurt fucking Hummel by a goddamn fucking lake, like in a freaking Hallmark channel movie.

God _damn_ it.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The shit hits the fan the next morning; he doesn’t even get a fucking breather.

“Is this a joke, to you?” Kurt says, shrieks -- well, it’d be a shriek, if it were loud; it’s kinda choked and hissed as it is, but the way Kurt slams his locker door shut and stares at him, demanding answers, vibrating with something that flashes behind his eyes, and if Noah didn’t know any better, he’d say it was fear that was shaking behind tears -- angry, vicious, hurt, betrayed, he can’t tell that, either; well, basically, altogether, it’s an effective means of making Noah just a little bit scared of him, like Kurt might go psycho on his ass, or bust out sobbing. One of the two.

“What am I?” Kurt says, angry, grabbing Noah’s arm when the bell rings and the halls start to empty, making him look and making him own to it, this whole fucking mess. “Something, to,” Kurt repeats, voice all trembly still, and his eyes are welling up more, worse: “to...”

And Noah -- it’s the same thing in his chest and his gut as it was before, as it has been for month, just worse now, because he knows it goes away when he does this, when he leans in and takes.

And there’s no one around, now, so he does it. Presses up and takes Kurt’s mouth again, quick and hard, and when he pulls back, Kurt’s blinking, staring, more shocked this time than he was the first time, Noah thinks, and there’s just one tear streaming down his cheek.

“Ain’t laughing, am I?” Noah mumbles, looks up at Kurt, looks down at his shoes, and he’s kind of just glancing up through his lashes as he watches Kurt fight through about twenty different feelings, about thirty times over before his mouth starts working around words that have no sounds, and Noah counts about seventy-two whole seconds before he actually says real things.

“What are you saying?” Kurt breathes out, like it kills him a little bit, like he doesn’t want to know the answer to a question he didn’t want to ask in the first place -- like this is the very last thing he’d expected, let alone wanted.

And Noah; he can fucking relate.

“Do you need a fucking roadmap, Hummel?” Noah finally says with a smirk, tries to play it cooler than he feels like he can back up. It doesn’t work, because Kurt’s staring at him like he’s not even real, like he’s crazy, and Noah stares down at his shoes again; one of them’s untied. “I did what I did because I wanted to,” he says, like it closes the issue, and God, he wishes it did, because it’s hard enough to go that far.

“Sorry,” he mumbles finally, when there’s just the ticking from the clock above the library door making any noise -- that, and the way they’re both kind of sucking in breath like it’s going out of style, but Noah’s pretty sure they’re ignoring that. He coughs; “You know, if it bugged you.”

Kurt laughs, except that it’s not a laugh, more like a huffy little sound that sounds like he’s going off the deep end; he runs a hand through that crazy-poofed hair of his, and it sticks up in the back; Noah thinks about saying as much, but Kurt talks first. “If it _bugged_ me?”

“Yeah,” Noah says slowly, trying to figure out where this is going, because he really doesn’t have a fucking clue, but then Kurt’s laughing again, full and barking, a little crazy, and Noah’s narrowing his eyes down at him.

“What?” he asks, and Kurt just shakes his head and swallows down his laugh-barks until he’s just moving his head back and forth, back and forth.

“You’re an idiot,” Kurt finally says, spits it like it really disgusts him, really just... baffles him, like Noah’s that much of a moron. And maybe he is, but Hummel doesn't get to be the one who points it out, and Noah’s just about to stand his ground, to get pissed and take it all back and tell Hummel to screw off so he can go deal with this shit on his own, make it go away, because trying to fess up to it and see where it goes was a stupid idea to begin with, and-

And Kurt’s got a hand fisted in his shirt sleeve and is dragging him with more force than Noah would have given that scrawny body credit for toward Mr. Schue’s Spanish room, where there won’t be a class until third period.

Noah likes to sleep there, sometimes.

“Look,” Noah protests when Kurt lets go of him and goes to shut the door; “I said I was-”

But then Kurt’s got his mouth on Noah, sloppy and angry and forceful and hungry -- and Noah can tell that one, can feel that one, because he knows when someone wants him, when they’re eating his face like its goddamn chocolate cake, because they do it all the time, and once in a while, he does it too.

And Kurt, he wants him. All swollen lips and big pupils -- Kurt Hummel fucking _wants_ him.

And that, well, that basically settles it. Because a piece of ass is a piece of ass.

Or else, that’s what Noah tells himself when he leans in and sucks Kurt’s bottom lip in between his teeth.

__________________________

 

It’s _not_ a joke -- really, it’s not, because Noah’d never go this far, this fucking _far_ , for just a prank -- but yeah, it is kind of hilarious in that hysterical, laughing-so-you-don’t-start-crying kind of way. Which isn’t to say that it’s bad, exactly. Just that it’s... pretty fucking weird.

They don’t talk about it. Not like normal people talk about that sort of shit -- and it works for Noah, because he doesn’t do the talking thing all that well, and he’s really not up for analyzing the fact that he’s kissed a dude, like, twice in as many days.

What they do instead of talking, though, is start hanging out. You know, like, for _real_. It’s easy enough in general -- it’s not as if he had to announce to anyone that he was suddenly hanging around Finn’s house for Kurt’s company, too, like it made a difference, and then with Glee and everything, he just sort of ends up tagging along with Kurt to things that he wouldn’t have gone to before. He gets a few raised eyebrows when he crashes the movie night that Kurt hosts for the “ladies and their respective significant others,” but it’s nothing major. It’s cool.

And sometimes, when everyone’s got their backs turned, Kurt gets closer than he needs to. Sometimes, when they’re the last ones in the choir room, they suck face for a minute and grind up against the edge of the piano, and Noah’s got to hide his hard-on while Kurt walks behind him, safe from view, looking smug as shit.

Sometimes, Noah catches a glance at Santana, with her nipples all hard under her Cheerios uniform, and he doesn’t even really think about getting in her pants. Well, at least, not like _consciously_ or anything. He’s not a fucking saint.

All in all, Noah’s pretty sure that it’s actually better than the whole “talking about it” thing.

But sometimes -- _sometimes_ , they go shopping. Which is easily ten times as shitty as the talking would have been, and basically just as faggy.

Actually, possibly more faggy.

It’s not as bad as it could be, though, because they only go because Noah needs a few new pairs of jeans -- too many of his have holes in places that are great for pool cleaning season, but violate district dress code or some bullshit -- and plus, AE’s having a sale, and Noah digs a bargain. Not to mention that he really likes the pretzels they sell over by GameStop and he buys like, three of them; and yeah, one of them was for Kurt, until Kurt scrunched up his nose and asked, in that pissy little voice of his, if Noah thought that a figure like his came without sacrifice.

Which Noah figures means, in girly-man speak, that he doesn’t want his pretzel.

So more hot, buttery goodness for him, basically, as Noah shoves a whole twist in his mouth with a shrug, and gets an eye-roll and a huffed “That is absolutely _revolting_ ” tossed back at him as Kurt walks off toward some shop with little hats that don’t cover your whole head.

And yeah, it’s probably really fucking pathetic that Noah thinks the eye-rolling’s kinda cute at this point, but whatever. He’s just going to go ahead and enjoy the view of Kurt’s ass in those goddamn _pants_ as he follows and chews at his food.

He’s lucky enough that Kurt’s distracted by a clearance rack of scarves for a good ten minutes, and Noah just stands around for that stretch of time, dodging glares from the dude behind the register when he smacks his mouth around the last of his pretzel. Eventually, though, said luck runs out when Kurt deems the entire display unworthy and turns toward the table that Noah’s leaning on while he sucks the butter from his fingers.

“Fuck no,” Noah says when Kurt lifts a teeny-tiny pinkish-looking sweater up to Noah’s chest, eyeing the size -- it legitimately _might_ cover nipple-to-nipple if he’s lucky, but Kurt’s looking at him like he can actually _see_ it on him, for real, licking his lips all sexy-like, like he’s thinking about dinner.

Or something better than dinner, maybe. And Noah can get on board with that shit.

Just, _not_ the sweater.

“It’d look great on you,” Kurt finally says with a sigh, folding the shirt back up and shooting Noah a loaded glance. “Seriously.”

But Noah’s already walking the gay tightrope as it is, he gets that -- you know, on a subconscious level that he’ll never actually admit to out loud -- and the clothing thing? Yeah, _no_.

“Yeah, don’t think so,” he shrugs it off and turns to walk toward the food court, because his pretzel’s gone and he needs a milkshake or something to wash the salt out of his mouth.

Or else, he would have, if Kurt hadn’t chosen that exact moment to drag him quick behind a mannequin and shove his tongue down Noah’s throat, licking the grease from Noah’s lips before he pulls away with a wicked grin that pools in Noah’s gut and tents in his jeans, just a little.

Ultimately, Noah decides against the milkshake.

It’s not until later, when they’re kinda-sorta making out in Noah’s room -- and Kurt’s really not as tame as people might think, because yeah, they haven’t _done_ anything yet, because it’s still weird to Noah that there’s no pussy involved in this equation, but Kurt’s rubbing his thigh against Noah’s crotch like a fucking pro, just enough pressure, fast and rough, and _fuck_ yeah; but it’s not until then that Noah realizes that he’s never gone shopping with a person he was “with” -- not even the chicks he’s actually _banged_.

And _damn_ , but this whole dude-macking thing’s a slippery fucking slope, for real.

__________________________

 

The fact that they make it to Nationals is kind of crazy.

The fact that they’re holed up in a seedy NYC hotel in mid-July -- crammed two to a bed on Schuester’s dime and what they managed to make on another round of cupcake sales -- is less so.

It’s actually the luck of the draw that he gets the single room with Kurt -- neither of them really make eye contact when Mr. Schue reads off the assignments, but as they take the elevator up an extra floor from everyone else to drop their bags and make sure the keys work -- real fucking keys, not even the little card things -- Kurt heaves a sigh of relief: “Thank God I didn’t get stuck with Sam. Or Finn, for that matter. As if living with him isn’t bad enough.”

Noah snickers, and waits for the doors to open.

A few of them go out after they unpack, get their outfits set out so the wrinkles can pull out by the time they have to be on stage. Schuester puts on a show of demanding that they stick together and stay out of trouble while he eyefucks Miss Pillsbury over dinner at the Hard Rock, and they agree easily enough -- it’s not like any of them have the money to get very far in a place like this, and they all know they have to be back at a decent hour so they can get some sleep before the competition in the morning, so it’s mostly just a drive-by kind of glimpse at the Big Apple, but they make the most of it.

Half of them brave the subway, but Mercedes insists on a cab -- Kurt pays for it, she kisses him on the cheek in thanks, and Noah doesn’t feel jealous, absolutely does not, as he sits in front with creepy-cabbie-man with the two of them, plus Quinn and Santana, squished into the back seat.

Does. Not. Feel. Jealous.

They get out at Broadway and 42nd and decide to kill some time; Kurt lets Santana windowshop for a maybe a minute before he decides to bail and drag Noah over toward Jamba Juice for a smoothie; Noah hates bananas, so Kurt doesn’t get his favorite -- Banana Berry -- and settles for a Berried n’ Chocolate that probably kills him on the inside, for what it’ll do to his figure, so he can offer a sip to Noah, who takes it, because, well: it’s not like he can say no.

They fuck around Times Square for a while, grab dinner at Olive Garden and pay at least double what it would cost them at home for the same meal, and it’s a good time, mostly; Kurt looks kind of... thoughtful, through some of it, staring blindly out the big glass panes at the billboards and the road below as he picks at his salad before their entrees come, and Noah goes out on a limb and nudges his shoulder a few times -- gets a smile for his efforts, and a tentative touch of a hand on his thigh beneath the table before Kurt seems to lose his nerve and pulls away.

Noah wishes he hadn’t, though, and that’s the kicker.

 

__________________________

 

Kurt takes the shower first, when they get back to the hotel, and Noah can’t help but thinking about him naked just across the room, just beyond the door, the wall -- it’s weird, but it’s there, and he can’t just pretend it isn’t anymore; it gets to him, gets him hard, and yeah it’s fucking weird, and wrong, and he’s not a fucking _fag_ , but he can’t help that shit.

He just _can’t_. And Noah, well, he might not be the most... evolved kind of person in the world, not real high-minded or anything, but what he lacks in refinement he makes up for in balls: he’s always been big on doing what makes him feel good, giving into the baser urges and going with it until it fucks him over royally -- you know, sucking the sexy-marrow out of life and all that bullshit; playing with fire until it burns.

And Kurt Hummel -- who’da thunk it, but the kid’s like marrow and fire and feel-good awesomeness all wrapped up into one, and Noah’s not gonna say no to that just because the guy’s got a dick.

He generally feels like he’s growing as a person, really. Or, you know, whatever people say about shit like that.

Kurt comes back into the room, towel slung around his waist, and it’s shit like that that drives it home for Noah -- that reminds him, without fucking around, that he’s basically kinda-sorta... _dating_ , a dude. A real one. With a penis and no tits.

The thing that he’s probably the most weirded out about is that it’s almost like he has to keep reminding himself to be weirded out by that fact in the first place.

He lays down next to Noah, careful to keep on his side, and says “All yours,” nodding toward the bathroom where there’s still steam billowing from the door, but there’s this drop of water running from Kurt’s hair down the side of his face, and Noah doesn’t really hear him, all that much -- he’s preoccupied.

And before he knows it, Kurt’s sucking Noah’s tongue into his mouth like he’s fucking starving, drowning -- like he needs it.

Noah gets his hands on Kurt’s sides and reaches out to thumb his nipples, rough and quick until they harden and Kurt moans, lets his mouth go so Noah can tongue around the buds -- Kurt likes that, and Noah likes it when Kurt’s head goes back and his neck stretches so his throat’s all tense and open for Noah to lick at, because Noah’s a sexual being, and that sort of shit turns him the fuck on.

He goes in to suck up from the base of Kurt’s throat, bite along his jaw a little, but he freezes, eyes snapping up to meet Kurt’s when he feels wandering fingertips at his happy trail, teasing at the fly of his jeans.

And Kurt’s looking at him, watching as his hands dive beneath the denim and the cotton, quick, like they’ll lose their nerve; watches as he touches and strokes and pulls, friction and heat and soft hands, except these are bigger, stronger than Noah’s ever had on him before, and it’s been awhile -- not so much a conscious choice, as he just... hasn’t fooled around with anyone in a good couple of months, is all -- so he doesn’t last, spills all over the sheets and Kurt’s hands and his the jeans he never took all the way off, and he’s panting like he’s never come before, like it’s new, but _fuck_ , that was _good_.

“You were my first,” he hears Kurt say -- far away, breathless. “Not just this. You were my first kiss.” He says it like he’s a little amazed, a little nostalgic -- a little disbelieving and maybe a little cynical, too -- it means things, Noah can tell, _this_ means things.

And even Noah knows: this here? This is _something_.

__________________________

 

They come in third, and it doesn’t hurt as much as maybe it should.

The two of them get the last seats on the charter bus, out of everyone’s line of sight; Kurt falls asleep on his shoulder, warm against his side as they drive back to Lima through the night; and yeah -- third place doesn’t really feel like a loss, so much.

__________________________

 

Kurt’s never sung for Noah. And Noah doesn’t know whether he’s more agitated by the fact that Kurt hasn’t, or the fact that he noticed it in the first place.

He realizes it, couple of days before schools starts again, laying in his boxers and a wife-beater on his bed, strumming idly on his guitar as Kurt’s sitting near his feet, reading some magazine of his mom’s.

See, Noah still hangs out at Kurt’s place with Finn for the afternoons, usually gets dinner there, too, but after; after, when Noah’s thirsty for something and Kurt’s eyes are bright with it, or maybe they just want to hang out, the two of them -- which is new for Noah, really fucking new, because every other person he’s ever shacked up with was about the deed, and just the fucking deed, and maybe booze, but never just hanging, just _being_ together -- afterward, they go to Noah’s house, mostly because of Finn.

It’s not that they don’t trust him, not exactly; and it’s not that they think he’ll do or say anything about it -- he’s come a long way with Kurt, even Noah can see that much, and they’ve gotten close, now that they’ve gotten over their shit. But Noah’s known Finn for basically forever, and he’s not really the brightest crayon in the box -- he doesn’t really get things, sometimes, and more often than not, he says things without thinking.

And things are alright, the way they are -- Noah’s not ready to be the gay football player, and Kurt’s alright with keeping quiet if it means people basically leave him alone, nowadays. So it’s not anything against Finn -- he’s just got a big fucking mouth, and Noah doesn’t feel like dealing with what comes of it.

So it’s Kurt who comes over; his mom doesn’t think much of it, likes the fact that Kurt compliments her choice in TV Dinners and her grandmother’s old-country china set, and that’s basically the end of that.

And besides they’re not together, in Noah’s mind, so much as they just kind of... are.

Yeah. Labels are lame, anyway.

But Noah’s still stuck on the fact that, while Kurt’s sung in front of him a bagillion and five times, by now, he’s never just sat there, and _sung_ for him. And, considering what they do, and how they met, and what this whole thing is slowly becoming -- which is something too close to one of his mom’s harlequin novels, with the buff guys and busty girls on the covers, to be a good thing, really, but Noah’s trying to ignore that -- but it seems weird, that they’ve never just sat somewhere and Kurt’s never sung a goddamned song with just _him_ there.

Just for him.

He risks a look down at his crotch to make sure his dick hasn’t dropped off in protest at the thought.

He’s plucking out No Surrender, because it’s a good one, and Kurt’s still staring at the trashy tabloid photos in _People_ or something, and he watches his fingers on the frets for a second before he tries to draw Kurt out.

“Learned more from a three-minute record, baby,” he mumbles across the notes, leans up a little onto the pillows at his headboard; chances a glance at Kurt, who’s not looking at the magazine anymore.

“Said you’re tired and you just wanna close your eyes, and follow your dreams down,” Kurt adds, a little breathy, not really on key -- not really sung, exactly -- as Noah keeps on playing, but doesn’t look away.

Kurt puts the magazine aside and crawls up the bed, fits himself along Noah’s side and slips his hand low, underneath the body of his guitar, just between it and Noah’s stomach, his groin, teasing just at the jut of bone near the crease of his thighs as he leans in and presses his mouth to Noah’s chin, just below his lower lip.

“No retreat,” he mouths, wet where Noah’s got some lazy stubble there; “baby, no surrender.” And he runs a thumb past the low waistband of Noah’s boxers -- a tease, or more a promise, like the song says.

He doesn’t mind, so much, that Kurt doesn’t really sing when they’re together like this.

__________________________

 

It’s a good two weeks into Senior year: everything feels kinda crazy and final and awesome, like this is their absolute last chance to make everything, do everything, be everything, and it’s kind of like a high, really -- and Noah, he’s riding it.

He’s laughing at something Artie’s saying, because everything seems funnier these days -- and it’s not just the whole Senior thing, really; Noah’s never really thought all that much of being happy, really, because his mom isn’t, and he can guess that his dad probably wasn’t, and most people he knows aren’t -- the pool women weren’t, and really aren’t now, since he isn’t putting out: happy just always seemed like a stupid thing no one ever got close to, so there wasn’t much of a point trying for it.

But, he kind of thinks he’s almost figured out where it is, at least, like he could navigate there with a GPS or something. Like maybe it’s not close, but he could point in its direction.

And that’s a fucking miracle, really; that’s a fucking start.

He doesn’t pretend he isn’t eyeing the door every couple minutes -- they’ve got their first real Glee rehearsal for the year, working on the first of their possible Sectionals numbers, and they’re waiting on Kurt to get back to the school; he’d left his mashup disc on his nightstand, and had taken off right after classes ended to try and beat the busses out so he could get back within half an hour, tops.

And Noah’s not _that guy_ \-- but it’s been probably, like, thirty-five minutes, now. Give or take.

He looks up when he hears footsteps, ignores the end of Artie’s story but laughs when Britt and Santana do, because no one’s going to really notice either way; cuts it short, when he sees that it’s Mercedes walking through, phone in her hand. Swallows what’s left of that light, laughing thing he’d been rocking as soon as he sees the look on her face.

“Guys,” Mercedes says, and there’s a catch in her voice that stops everyone kind of short; that Noah doesn’t like, because Aretha -- she’s a tough fuckin’ chick. If she’s choked up, then something’s bad.

“It’s Kurt,” she says, all soft and shaken, and fuck it, the bones in Noah’s chest nearly crack when she says it, against his will, all pressure and sharp pain when he breathes in, right before she says the rest; “There was an accident.”

He’s out the door, keys in hand, before she gets another shaky word out of her mouth.

__________________________

 

Noah basically just backtracks from the school to Kurt’s house, driving fucking blind, and he’s lucky there aren’t any cops, or a whole lot of people on the road, because his eyes are on the sides of the streets, not the actual street in front of him -- his head’s not there, and he’s going at least twenty over the speed limit.

He sees the front end of the Navigator from the passenger side at an intersection about half-way to the school, and his stomach literally lurches, because the thing is fucked. Entirely _fucked_.

He parks and does the only thing he can think of after he just stares for a second, heart like a drum in his chest.

He calls out for Kurt.

“Oh,” he hears, and he turns quick, on a goddamn dime, because it’s coming from behind the car, and it sounds... not dead. Not even all that hurt, really. Noah jogs around the front end of the wreck -- still smoking, and sees the driver’s side, which is still pretty much intact, and lets himself just run the rest of the steps around to the back.

“Oh, Noah,” and Kurt’s there, leaning against the bumper with his ankles crossed and his arms the same, caught between fucking _scowling_ up at the decimated half of his ride, and looking at him like he’s kind of surprised that Noah’s there; happy to see him, in a roundabout way, but mostly just confused as to why he’s even there. “Look at this,” he barks, short, grabbing Noah’s shoulder and steering him back over to the front of the car, gesturing widely at the shards of glass and the twisted metal before he screeches: “Just, _look_ at this.”

Noah doesn’t look at it, though; he looks at Kurt. And he only does that for a minute before he grabs Kurt and pulls him in close.

“What on earth are you doing?” Kurt asks as Noah holds him, just a little bit away so that he can see his skin, his face, so that he can run his hands down Kurt’s arms to make sure he didn’t break anything, didn’t miss something, because he looks fine, but Noah’s not sure; not ready, yet, to be sure -- the adrenaline’s still pounding through him hard, and it’s not ebbing yet.

“You got into a fucking _car accident_ ,” he growls as he gets both hands on Kurt’s neck and looks at his eyes, carefully, because head injuries can sneak up on you, and maybe Kurt’s pupils look too big, he can’t tell; he doesn’t know what an _actually_ blown pupil even _looks_ like. “What the hell do you _think_ I’m doing?”

“You’re frisking me?” Kurt asks, genuinely confused for the second Noah stands still, just _looks_ at him, before he pulls Kurt in and just hugs him, tight, wrapped full into him so he can’t move, can’t go anywhere.

“And then suffocating me?” he hears the muffled comment Kurt adds to his former train of thought, and loosens his hold, just a little. Not too much, though.

“I was worried, you moron,” he says, only half-regrets admitting it in retrospect, outside of himself, but mostly, he’s just wired, and Jesus _Christ_ , he’s _relieved_.

 _Fuck_ , but he doesn’t think he’s ever been that scared.

“You were,” Kurt says, looks at him for the split second that lasts before Noah gives up and pulls him up against him again, warm at his chest, and Kurt’s shoved into him so close, Noah knows he has to feel the way his lungs are working too hard, the way his heart’s still thrashing, pounding at his ribs; he’s quiet for a second, waits for Kurt to just get it, and prays he just lets it lay as is.

Kurt’s arms come up around him, finally; “Oh,” he breathes, and folds himself down so his head rests just under Noah’s chin, his ear right at the place where Noah’s pulse is rumbling between his collarbones.

Noah lets his hand come to rest on the back of Kurt’s head, keeps him pressed there for a second that lasts a really long time, too quick; makes himself pull back and put Kurt at arm’s length, else he’ll stand there ‘til sundown like this. He really fucking will.

“What the hell happened?” he asks; means for it to come out sharper, harder, but it mostly just comes out as a long, drawn-out sigh.

“Well,” Kurt says, doesn’t hesitate to jump right in and tell the tale of woe; “I was talking to Mercedes,” he pauses with a toss of his head; “on _speakerphone_ , mind you, and I make my turn here,” he points to the intersection where Noah’d spotted the wreck in the first place. “and this brilliant, _brilliant_ man,” Kurt tosses his wrist over toward a Tahoe that’s seen better days -- doesn’t look nearly as bad as Kurt’s car, but it’s the first time Noah’d even noticed the other party to the accident at all -- where a guy in his mid-forties, maybe, is talking into his phone, probably waiting for the cops; “veers out of his lane and smashes my entire front end in!” Kurt sends a glare over at the bastard, but he isn’t looking, doesn’t see. Noah fights the urge to go over and pound the fucker’s head in, for all the could-have-beens, for all the almosts.

“So my car’s busted, my phone’s probably cracked in half in the center console; a brand new 4G phone!” Kurt adds, furious, and something eases in Noah’s chest when he sees Kurt turn red with the rage, eyes bulging and fists clenched. “And, I... ugh!” Kurt groans, puts his hands at the sides of his head and just stares at his baby, all beaten up.

Noah puts a hand at the small of his back and turns him around, frowns deep when he sees the line of wet red at the center of his bottom lip -- it hadn’t been there before.

“And this?”

“What,” Kurt asks, follows Noah’s gaze to his mouth and bring his fingers up to his lip; draws them away and sees the same red stuck to his fingertips. “Oh, damnit, it must have split back open,” Kurt swears, but cuts his ranting short when he looks up at Noah, sees the frantic _feeling_ Noah’s still trying to get under control.

“I...” Kurt says, a little too evasively for Noah’s liking, “banged my head on the steering wheel.”

And Noah’s about to haul him straight to the hospital himself, but Kurt sees it, and heads him off.

“ _After_ ,” he says pointedly, puts a hand on Noah’s chest to keep him still; “after the crash. I was trying to find the phone, and the airbag kept getting in my way, and I...” he blushes, and Noah lets himself relax, just a little, as Kurt looks up through his lashes and admits; “I basically knocked my face into the dash.”

And Noah laughs, laughs and ducks his head, squeezes his eyes shut fucking tight; because the tension has to come out somehow, and it’s going to come out as _laughter_ , damn it, and nothing else.

He sucks in a heavy breath and looks back up, takes Kurt in -- rumpled, maybe, but if he weren’t standing in front of his ruined Navigator, even Noah wouldn’t have thought anything was wrong, out of the ordinary.

“You’re okay?” he asks simply, one more time, runs his thumb down Kurt’s cheek as he watches for any sign to the contrary, just to be sure. “Really?”

“Really,” Kurt tells him, leans up and kisses him quick on the lips, pulls back a little shy, but smiling. “It was seriously lucky, but there’s not a scratch on me.”

Noah nods, and just... decides to be thankful.

Kurt turns back to the car and sighs. “Dad’s gonna flip,” he says, distraught, but Noah just laughs more, lets it out, and wraps an arm around Kurt’s shoulder and draws him close enough to press his lips to the top of his head.

“Your dad’s not gonna give a shit about the car, man.”

No one gives a shit about the fucking _car_.


	4. Chapter 4

Maybe it’s a big fucking cliché, but after the wreck, things change.

See, because people -- any people; all people, maybe -- but people: they’re not rational, and they’re not logical, and they don’t make sense. And when they hear bad news, they just think the worst.

And for a good fifteen minutes of his life, Noah Puckerman had basically figured that the worst case scenario in his sorry little existence would have been that Kurt fucking Hummel was dead and bloody on the side of the road.

Worst. Case. Scenario.

That sort of thing kind of alters the playing field.

It takes a couple of days for Noah to put it all back into perspective, but he gets there, and he realizes in the process that Kurt’s something special. Not like, as a person -- which, that’s true, too, but not the point -- but Kurt’s special to _him_. In his head, Kurt comes in next to his mom and his sister, beats out Finn and Quinn, and Santana by a mile, and everyone else by more.

Noah realizes that there’s really no use in denying it anymore, given the way he’d flipped shit after the crash: Kurt’s basically his fucking _boyfriend_. Like, for real.

They never actually tell anyone, not outright. Most people just figure they’ve crazily become friends, which is weird enough, and the two of them don’t really try to hide that. Noah takes a few more slushies, and Kurt braves more sporting events than he might have previously bothered to attend, and sometimes he puts an arm around Kurt and steers him into the choir room, but it’s not as weird as it maybe should be, or as telling as it could be, either. No one seems to pick up on it for sure, the way they are together -- he gets a few questioning glances here and there, mostly from Mercedes, and Rachel, and Quinn, but the rest of it’s just confusion, suspicion, that sort of thing.

And Noah can deal with that.

But when it’s them; when they’re at Noah’s, or when Finn’s with Rachel and they’re lying in Kurt’s bed -- when it’s them, it’s different, it changes, and Noah wants Kurt closer, wants Kurt around for more than just his hands down Noah’s pants every so often, more than just soft lips and the physical release of it; he wants Kurt, and he can admit that to himself, at least, and that’s a start.

And life’s just a bunch of experiences, maybe, and good or bad, they all just get dead at the finish; but Noah, he’s never really looked _forward_ to the stuff in between so much, like he does now. Like he does when he knows Kurt’s gonna swing by his locker and smile at him, all coy and secret; when he wakes up in the middle of the night and Kurt’s sleeping -- just _sleeping_ , and who the fuck saw that coming? -- right there next to him, it all feels weird and new and awesome and freaking insane, really; but it also feels _right_ , and Noah’s learned not to question the good things.

So they spend more afternoons together than they spend apart, and Noah gets used to actually falling asleep with someone next to him, waking up the same way even, sometimes, when Kurt can convince his dad that he’s just going over to Mercedes’ for a girls’ night. He helps Kurt narrow down the places he’s going to apply for college -- a few out of state, because they’re awesome, and a few in-state, because it’s practical, and there really are some great schools for musical theatre in Ohio, apparently. Kurt helps him fill out the Common Application to see if he can get into a state school at best, a community college at worst. Kurt sends his apps out for him, in the end, rolling his eyes and muttering about Noah being lazy and useless -- Noah laughs, but notices that the addresses on the envelopes are only going to places that are within driving distance of the places where Kurt applied.

It kind of makes him smile, a little.

And he doesn’t think about it -- doesn’t think about what it makes him if he wants Kurt, wants to maybe think about seeing him after graduation, keeping things the way they are, making them better, even, maybe; if he thinks about him when he jerks off, if he likes when it’s Kurt’s hands, or his mouth, on his dick; if he’s getting to be really okay with being with a dude, and getting really used to being celibate when it comes to anything more than handjobs and blowjobs. He doesn’t think about any of it -- because if he dwells on things, if he mulls ‘em over too long in his head, they don’t stay good things. They turn into something worse, something less.

And he really, _really_ wants this thing they’ve got to stay good.

He wants this thing they’ve got to _stay_.

__________________________

 

It’s not that Noah’s excited, exactly, about this lame middle-school award ceremony, but he loves his sister, and he’ll suffer through it if he has to.

And she’s basically told him that he has to, or she’ll hate him forever and always. Her words, not his.

His mom slaps his shoulder when he gets his phone out and starts playing Tetris on his phone, so he slips it in his pocket on vibrate, not that he’s expecting anyone to get in touch with him. Kurt knows he’s busy, and it’s a Tuesday -- the weekdays aren’t really popular for making plans, and everyone knows that Noah’s not the person to call for a question on homework or tomorrow’s quiz or, whatever; and Finn’s out with Rachel for their... four-hundredth-and-some day anniversary, and Noah knows his boy’s planning on staying the night at her place.

So it’s not like he needs to be paying attention to the phone.

He suffers through a class that’s a whole hell of lot bigger than he remembers his being, when he had to do this -- his sister gets some President’s Fitness Award thing, and a certificate for Honor Roll, and of course he claps, because he’s proud, Sara’s a smart cookie. He grins at her when she seeks their mom and him out in the bleachers, and he gives her a thumbs-up when she holds up her certificate, freaking glowing with excitement.

It feels like things go a little more quickly, after that.

They’re filing out of the gym a good twenty minutes later, and Noah’s helping his mom down the steps -- she’s never been the most coordinated person, plus she’s wearing heels, and falling down bleachers sucks balls, for real -- so he almost doesn’t notice the shaking of his phone against his leg; doesn’t grab it out of his pocket until it’s been ringing a while already. He glances at the display and sees the name -- frowns, and flips it open, shaking his head at his mom and mouthing at her incoherently as he makes a beeline for the outcropping by the locker rooms so he can take the call.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt’s voice comes across the line as soon as Noah picks it up, rushed and breathless and a little bit higher pitched than it should be, which makes it kind of like the bastard child of a squeak and a sigh. “I’m sorry, I know you’re at Sara’s ceremony, and I didn’t mean-”

“Dude, breathe,” Noah says carefully, wary, as he plugs his other ear with a finger and turns away from the rush of the families filing out of the gymnasium. “What’s up?”

The line’s quiet for a second, and there’s a moment where Noah can’t tell the scuffling of feet from the people behind him apart from the sounds coming from Kurt on the phone, but then he hears sniffling, the hiccup of a person trying to stop themselves from crying and only half-succeeding -- and not for long at that -- and he feels something clench in his gut at the sound of it.

“Kurt,” he starts, but he doesn’t have to go any further.

“They’re engaged,” Kurt whispers, chokes on the words and heaves the kind of breath that whines and sobs and leads to hyperventilation, and it nicks something in Noah to hear it, to not be there to do anything about it. Which is new still, but he’s beginning to feel pretty sure that it isn’t bad: “Dad and Carole. They’re getting married.”

And Kurt -- he sounds a little like Noah’s mom used to sound, when someone would mention his dad, when he’d ask questions about him; how she sounded before she was just bitter and angry.

Kurt sounds a little like a heart breaking, really, and Noah just looks at his mom, waiting nearby and keeping watch for Sara to meet them, and says “I’m on my way,” because however Kurt’s sounding, that’s how Noah’s kind of feeling when he hears it, when he has to listen.

He reminds himself, again, that it’s a new thing, not a _bad_ thing.

__________________________

 

Kurt opens the door before he can knock, all red-eyed and soggy-looking, and Noah doesn't even really care when Kurt just about throws himself at him, wraps his arms around him and clings, because Noah just goes ahead and hugs him back.

Noah doesn’t say anything, just follows Kurt when he sucks in air, shaky, and walks up the stairs instead of down.

They climb up to the attic, and Noah’s not sure what they’re doing until they’re in front of an old dresser -- it hasn’t been where it is for long, because the dust on the floor’s still swirled around it, and hasn’t settled onto the piece itself yet; there’s a braided rug laid at the base, and Kurt falls down on it, just kind of collapses onto it and breathes.

So Noah just settles behind him, and rubs his back like his mom always used to when he was sick, when he missed his dad -- and he waits it out, smells perfume when he lays down and gets close to the rug, and he gets it.

He gets it.

They stay where they are for a good hour before Noah leans down and rubs the bridge of his nose against Kurt’s neck, breathes in as Kurt lets out a slow, careful sigh.

“Come on,” Noah says softly, kisses just below Kurt’s ear, and he feels the some of the tension seep out; and he likes that, likes that he can do that -- that he can help. “Let’s get you into a bed, man.”

Kurt doesn’t move at first; finally reaches back and threads his fingers through Noah’s, brings their hands against his stomach, slides them up toward his chest. “Just a little bit longer,” he whispers, like he’s begging, like he needs it.

“Yeah,” Noah says, settles back to the floor and reaches with his free hand to run fingers through Kurt’s mussed-up hair. “Yeah, okay.”

He notices pretty quickly when Kurt finally falls asleep; Noah lets him settle there, just until he’s deep enough under not to notice when Noah picks him up and gets a good grip on him, because Noah knows from experience: no one likes to sleep on the floor.

He takes Kurt slowly down to his bed -- careful, as not to wake him, not to fall down the fucking stairs, but he makes it. He pulls the blankets up to cover him and slides in close; thinks about leaving, for a second, but then thinks twice.

They spend the night together, against Noah’s better judgment, sure, but Kurt needs it, and Finn’s gone for the night -- Noah can slip out before daybreak.

It’ll be fine.

__________________________

 

There’s a saying, he thinks, about the best laid plans, and he can’t remember it, but he thinks that if he could -- if he had remembered it, before, he might have realized that he’s not a fucking morning person, and there was absolutely no way in hell he’d be getting up before the crack of dawn, no matter what he was hoping for.

Instead, though, he wakes up at quarter to five in the fucking morning, with Kurt curled up around him, dead to the fucking world, in Kurt’s freaking room, with Finn staring down at him like he couldn't string two words together right if he tried.

Which, granted, is how Finn looks most of the time, but this is different. Because his eyes are going back and forth between Noah and Kurt, and his eyes are all beady-wide, and his jaw’s hung open all shocked and shit, and... goddamn, this is exactly what he’d been trying to avoid.

He groans as he rubs his eyes; really, _really_ not a morning person.

“So,” Finn says finally, voice low as his gaze shifts around, guilty, like a kid with his hand in the cookie-jar or some shit. “I mean, we kinda figured,” he reaches out gestures over at where Noah’s stretched out; “But... not like,” Finn shakes his head and looks away again. “Yeah.”

Noah smirks, doesn’t move his hand from where Kurt had dragged it across his middle. “Yeah,” he echoes.

Finn swallows, peeks up at him, sheepish. “Yeah.”

Noah rolls his eyes -- kid’s fucking thick sometimes. “You gonna have a problem with this?” he asks, brow cocked; doesn’t pose it like the answer matters for Noah, so much as it’d matter for Finn. Which is the truth of it -- if Finn’s got an issue, that’s his own beef. Noah’s not going anywhere.

“You gonna treat him decent?” Finn asks, voice heavy now, with an edge; Noah’s a little surprised at the way Finn’s eyes fix on him, now, narrow at him, like he’s grown some fucking balls. Huh. “I know how you are,” Finn continues, his tone light, but sharp, accusing -- and yeah, Noah figures he deserves that a little, he _did_ knock up Finn’s girl. “But you can’t... not with _him_.” And Finn nods down at Kurt, who’s still fast asleep, jaw clenched and stance firm, like he’ll take Noah if he has to, if he lays a tow out of line.

“Giving me the speech, Hudson?” Noah asks, a little shell-shocked; “ _Really_?”

“You fuck everything that moves, man,” Finn says plainly, and fine, yeah, he did. He used to. “Of _course_ I’m giving you the damn speech.”

Noah lets a breath out, looks down at Kurt, and closes his eyes before he looks back at Finn. “I’m trying, man,” he tells him, honest, and he can see the moment that Finn hears it -- hears that it’s hard, but he’s making a real attempt here, all laid out in the way that he says it. “I...” he swallows, and his hand shifts on Kurt’s stomach when Kurt shifts, breathes deep; “I’m trying.”

Finn stands there for a second, takes them in slower this time -- looks to see where Kurt’s tucked up against Noah, where he’s curled a foot under his blankets right around Noah’s ankle, where Noah’s got him held against his chest; it’s weird, but Noah’s not gonna deny it, not gonna hide now. “Right,” Finn finally says, a little uncomfortable, but he sounds convinced enough. “Good.”

He goes to walk away, probably grab a shower before school -- Noah’s not that fucking ambitious, right now -- but then he stops, turns back, looms over him again.

“Look,” Finn says, stares at the floor before he looks back at Noah; “we’ve had our issues, and you’ve really messed shit up more than once, but you’re my bro, dude. Thick and thin, apparently,” he laughs a little, runs a hand through his hair and takes a steadying breath; Noah steels himself for the blow. “But he’s my _brother_ ,” Finn finishes, and he doesn’t have to say anything else.

Noah nods, careful not to bother Kurt where he’s pressed up under his chin. “I hurt him, you hurt me,” Noah summarizes. “I get it.”

Finn nods, looks at them both again, hard. “Alright,” he finally says, and turns away; actually leaves, this time.

Noah breathes in deep; settles back behind Kurt, who nestles into him like a cat or something, and figures he can catch another hour of sleep, if he’s lucky.

Fifteen minutes, if he’s not.

__________________________

 

Surprisingly, Finn knows how to keep his mouth shut. Or else, Noah figures that’s what it is, because no one gives them strange looks -- no stranger than usual, anyway, and Noah’s keeping an eye out for it, too -- for the whole day.

Huh. Maybe Finn’s not a total failure at life, after all.

He’s thinking about bringing him a couple of those double-XL chalupas when he swings by that afternoon as a sort of “Hey, you can zip your fucking lips; congratulations!” thing, when Kurt comes up to him -- the first time they’ve seen each other since that morning. In Kurt’s bed.

Kurt smiles at him, small, kind of shy, and Noah likes that look on him. “Look,” Kurt says, soft, like he’s embarrassed and happy all at once, and it’s weird, but cute. “About last night,” he starts, but then he stops again, like he doesn’t know what to say; like they’re new again, like they’re new together. “I-”

“Kurt,” Noah says, tries to tell him it’s nothing, to just let it lie, but Kurt looks up at him, catches his eyes head on, and he stops before Kurt says a thing.

“Thank you,” Kurt tells him, and it’s the most loaded pair of words Noah thinks he’s ever heard.

“I’ve had some time to think about things,” he keeps on talking, but Noah’s not listening with his whole attention, probably not even just half of his attention; he’s still focused on the _thank you_ , on how it kind of knocked the wind out of him, just the way it sounded, like it came from somewhere deep.

“And I talked with Finn. I may have,” Kurt sighs, and it almost brings Noah back to the conversation, “overreacted. It’s the best thing for everyone. Carole makes my dad so happy. And she just adores him, and I adore her. And Finn, too, I mean, I’ve never had a family like that, you know?” And Noah isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to agree, or give Kurt a reason to crumble again, so he just stays quiet, nods, hopes he looks like he’ll swing either way Kurt needs him to.

Because he will. Or he’ll try, at least.

“So, now that I’m not quite as much of a sobbing mess about the whole affair anymore,” Kurt laughs, a little sad, but then he looks up at Noah and there’s nothing funny about the smile on his face; it’s all nerves and hope, and Noah’s not following, but he feels anxious, anyway. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Noah leans back against the row of lockers, folds his arms over his chest. “Shoot.”

“They want me to be the best man,” Kurt says with a nod. “Well, one of them. Finn would be the other.”

Noah grins, like he has a clue where this is going. “That’s cool, dude,” he says, tries to sound genuine and invested; it’d be easier, if Kurt sounded happier about the whole thing, but whatever. He can be supportive if he has to, totally. “You’ll be good at that.”

“Finn’s going to take Rachel, of course,” he says with a dismissive flip of his hand; he likes Finn and Rachel just fine, Noah’s learned, but just really doesn’t _get_ them, _together_. “So she’ll be in the wedding party, as his date. But me,” he says, a little wistful; “I still need someone to walk down the aisle with.”

Kurt looks at Noah like he’s expecting him to pick up on what he’s getting at, but Noah’s not really feeling it.

Kurt smiles, like he thinks Noah’s obliviousness is adorable, if maddening; it should piss Noah off a little, but he’s still mostly just confused.

He should be expecting the words that come next -- they make perfect sense, they’re obvious; but honestly? They’re the farthest thing from his mind.

“Go with me?”

__________________________

 

Shockingly, Noah doesn’t run. Well; not literally. And that’s a start.

He does make a quick excuse to get to a class he doesn’t actually have, and subsequently decides to hide from Kurt for the rest of the day, followed by basically the entire weekend -- which is fairly easy, but not all that enjoyable. Noah doesn’t really process just how much time they spend together until he’s actively trying to avoid the kid. And yeah, it’s juvenile as fuck, but to Kurt’s credit, he doesn’t try to track Noah down.

Noah’s stuck somewhere between grateful, and kind of disappointed, about that.

It doesn’t last long, though, and by Monday morning, Noah’s caught by his locker by one Kurt Hummel, who looks tired, and drained, and determined. Not a combination Noah’s prepared to fuck with this early in the day.

“I,” he tries, but it’s really no use. “I, uhhh... class?”

It sounds like a question, even to his own ears. Damn _it_.

“Look,” Kurt says, in that voice he has when he’s making a point, when you’re not supposed to interrupt him. “I think you... I think there’s,” and he stops, considers Noah for a second before starting again.

“Listen,” he says, his voice low, like he needs Noah to listen, to understand -- _needs_ him to. “I’m not expecting declarations. I’m not expecting commitment, even. I’m not that naive. I know what you’re willing to do,” he glances up at Noah, all puppy-eyes and watery smile; “what you’re willing to give to, whatever this is.” He rests a hand on Noah’s arm, lets it slip to his chest for a second before he pats the muscle there once, twice, and draws back. “I know. And I’m okay with that. And I don’t want you to go to any lengths you aren’t willing to go to.”

He breathes deep before he looks up at Noah and tells him, straight up: “I’d love for you to go _with_ me, but I know you’re not... I know you’re not ready for that.”

He’s quiet for a second, breaks eye contact while Noah lets it all sink in.

“I’ve invited most of Glee club,” he adds, hopeful. “I mean, it’s a party, but... as moral support, you know? So it’s not like you’ll stick out, or it’ll be awkward or obvious. No one has to know.” He says the last part a little desperately, and Noah -- he doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like how it makes him feel like an asshole.

“Just, I want you there,” and Kurt sounds like he wants to cry but won’t let himself, and goddamnit, Noah’s _in_ this. He’s too much of a coward to say it out loud, here, but this is different. This is their friends, Kurt’s _family_. They’ve been at this game for more than a fucking year, now; Noah’s never stuck with anything that long.

“I want you to be there with me,” he carries on, his voice just above a whisper; “Because _I’ll_ know.”

And Noah: he hadn’t really thought about it before -- before he’d walked away from Kurt when he’d asked the first time, before this particular moment, even; but he wants that, he thinks. He’s pretty sure he wants that.

Because _he’d_ know, too.

“Would it help if I told you there’d be an open bar?” Kurt asks, a little shrill, and Noah lets himself smirk a little at that; just a little, because this isn’t a joke. They’re not -- weren’t _ever_ \-- a joke.

“God, say _something_ ,” Kurt says finally, bordering on hysterical, and Noah steps in close, doesn’t care so much if anyone’s around to see.

“Yeah,” he says, quiet, right by Kurt’s ear as he glances down, meets Kurt’s eyes sidelong; “Yeah, I’ll go.”

Kurt lets out a sigh, like he’d been holding his breath too long, even though he hadn’t been, and Noah could let it go at that.

He could.

“With you,” Noah tacks on, wants to make it clear, so he can’t second guess himself, so he can’t back out. He _wants_ this. “I’ll go with you,” he says, with as much weight as he can manage. “And I’ll stand up and do your crazy shit and whatever. If that’s what you want.”

And Kurt’s little grin turns big, wide -- like Christmas and birthdays and the last day of school and all the solos he could ever get, all together, all at once -- and Noah did that; Noah fucking _did_ that.

Ain’t no turning back, now.

__________________________

 

This time, Nationals is a given. It’s a given because they have a score to settle. They have a story to finish.

It’s in May this year, and the seniors in the club are already done with classes, and the rest of them get lucky enough to be exempted from most of their finals so they can go to D.C. for the competition.

Noah and Kurt get a room to themselves -- nicer, this time, because Figgins has actually given them a budget -- and it’s different this time around, smoother, freer. Noah smiles like he doesn’t think he’s ever smiled, and Kurt laughs like he means it, and the night after they take home a trophy too huge to get into a taxi, Schue takes them all for dinner on the school’s dime, and the management has to escort them out when they stay there, celebrating, until an hour after closing.

It’s a good fucking night.

They’re back at the hotel, and if they squint they can see parts of the National Mall from the window, can spot the peak of the Washington Monument; Noah’s looking, stripping his shirt off from eight stories up, and he only kind of of hums when he feels hands -- Kurt’s hands -- wrap around him and settle on his pecs; Kurt’s body pressed against him from behind as they shift into each other and Kurt rests his chin on Noah’s shoulder, turns and presses his lips to Noah’s neck.

And _Jesus_ , but Noah -- he really never saw any of this coming.

He almost thinks that kind of makes it all the better, now.

They end up on Kurt’s bed, the one closer to the door; and he’s pulling off Kurt’s shirt and he’s got his tongue in Kurt’s mouth, and Kurt’s hands are roaming all over the fucking place, tweaking his nipples and teasing his dick through his pants as he unbuttons and unzips, pushing them down to Noah’s knees with his heels as they move, hips close as Noah lets the friction build where they touch, rub, and he swallows the way that Kurt moans when his hips cant hard, sucks it in, and he’s about to lend a hand between them -- getting over the whole dick-touching thing is probably the best thing he’s ever done -- when Kurt pulls back, pupils blown, and puts a hand on Noah’s chest, firm; keeps him still until he’s watching, paying attention.

Kurt gropes blindly, chest heaving under Noah as he reaches for something and finds it, eyes getting wide when he does, his palm still flat on the center of Noah’s chest. Kurt’s eye slide closed and he breathes deep, and Noah doesn’t know what to think except to try and move closer, but Kurt’s having none of it, keeping him where he is with the touch of his hand. Kurt looks up into him, all full and wanting, but he’s shaking; Noah can see the beat of his pulse at his neck.

He’s about to pull back and figure out what the fuck’s going on when Kurt raises up, puts his lips where his hand had been, and it’s only after he sinks back onto the bed that Noah sees what he’s holding -- what he’s found; a familiar foil package and a plastic bottle that Noah’s only seen with some of the steamier soccer moms he’s done in his time.

He swallows hard, and fuck, it’s been a long time since he’s had real fucking sex; but he looks hard at Kurt, tries to work out whether he’s serious, whether he’s okay with it -- and if that doesn’t tell him something right there, he doesn’t know what will, because he’ll wait, if Kurt isn’t ready.

He’ll need a cold fucking shower, given the way his cock’s already throbbing, but he’ll wait.

“I want to,” Kurt tells Noah, though, answers his unspoken question; nuzzles at the center of his chest so that he feels the words on his skin, and it sends a shiver down his spine when Kurt bites at his collarbone, not so soft, and looks up at him -- doe-eyed, yeah, but he’s solid. Sure.

And Noah -- he kisses him, like he goddamn fucking _means_ it, and grabs for the condom Kurt’s got clutched in his hand.

And, see: Noah remembers what his mom told him when he got his first girlfriend, who’d lasted all of a week. He remembers what she told him about respecting women and no meaning no, and all of the things that were way beyond his pay-grade at the tender age of eleven, and that he’d already figured out from movies and his friends’ older brothers’ porn mags anyway -- but one thing stuck out to him.

_Noah, sex is supposed to be special. Sex is special, if you’re doing it right._

And so yeah, his mom wasn’t always the best with words. And Noah used to think that he got what she’d meant, because sex was something special, alright; it was fucking awesome, and he was pretty sure he was doing it more than right, because he’d never gotten any complaints.

But then there was this. There was this, and he’s not even doing anything yet; they’re not even _fucking_ yet, and suddenly, he gets it.

They’re doing it right.

__________________________

 

The wedding’s in June. It’s outside, it’s hot as fuck, but even Noah can admit: it’s kind of awesome.

People cry, Carole’s doing that glowy thing that people always talk about when they’re talking about babies and weddings, and Kurt’s told him all about the no-run makeup he’s got her dolled up in, and thank fuck for that, because she’s bawling, and Burt’s grinning like his face is gonna break, and they’re standing there, and they’re talking about love and destiny and forever and all that crazy stuff Noah’d never seen or understood -- still doesn’t, but Finn’s looking at Rachel, and Kurt’s looking at the floor, and his eyes are so red, and they look all green like that when he cries, the blue washed out, and Noah basically just says fuck it, and brushes his fingers against Kurt’s wrist on the far side, away from the guests, and he can see it in the set of Kurt’s shoulders, in the way his hand curls up and cups Noah’s a little awkwardly -- subtle, so no one notices, but Noah can see the way he grins as the tears keep falling down his cheeks as he watches his dad take a wife.

Once it’s over, and they walk out, Kurt dodges out of the procession and leads Noah over the edge of the yard; kisses him once, hard before anyone comes around the corner before he goes back to his best-manly duties. Noah laughs when he hears Kurt yelling at someone about something -- cars being where they need to be at the right time, so they can all get to the reception hall on time, photographers being in their given places for just the right shot, whatever else there is to freak over, basically, Kurt’s got all the bases covered in a single breath as he directs and commands; Noah just watches with his hands in his pockets -- he’s mostly just along for the ride.

He’s waiting to be told where to go when Mercedes comes up behind him, gives him a shrewd once-over with her hands on his hips before she asks him, without even pretending to lead into it.

“So. You and Kurt? For real?”

He nods, because he doesn’t have to justify it, but he figures he owes her an answer, at least. He likes her, and she’s basically Kurt’s girly-soul-mate-person, or whatever. “Yeah. For real.”

She frowns, but doesn’t comment, just tells him, seriously: “You know he’s totally smitten with your stupid ass, right?”

He just smirks, and walks away, because he’s got a reputation to uphold.

Later, though, when the reception’s in full swing, and everyone’s got a glass of champagne, no matter how old they are, Noah asks Kurt for a dance. In front of God and everyone.

Because maybe, just maybe, he digs Kurt just as much.

__________________________

 

Try telling the Noah Puckerman of two years ago that he’d even be _at_ Kurt Hummel’s graduation party, let alone be the last one to leave, and he’d have laughed. And then he’d have tossed the stupid motherfucker who was spewing said bullshit into the dumpster just outside the cafeteria, where the leftovers were sent to rot between fish sticks on Friday and garbage pick-up the following Thursday.

So yeah, okay: the Noah Puckerman of two years ago was kind of a dick.

But everyone’s basically left already -- it’s past four in the morning, and Kurt’s exhausted, staring off at nothing where they sit on the deck out back; even Finn’s turned in, and it might just be his imagination, but Noah thinks the sky’s getting lighter already -- end’s coming soon.

“Is this it?” Kurt asks, quiet where he’s propped between Noah’s legs on the back lawn, leaning into his chest with Noah’s arms wrapped around him, loose.

“Is this what?”

Kurt sighs, and Noah feels the push of his chest against his forearms when he breathes. “Is this where you say that I was a great lay, and thanks for putting out, see you ‘round at our class reunion?”

And it hits Noah hard, for a whole slew of different reasons; that Kurt would think it, would say it -- that it would’ve been true, not long ago, that it’s not unheard of. That things really are wrapping up, coming to an end -- and Noah swallows hard, tries not to think about how it’s all coming to a close like it is. This. Everything.

For his own part, he’d dicked around about the college thing for too long before he made a real decision on anything, but OSU gave him a decent deal, and while he hadn’t really made plans for moving to Columbus on such short notice, he figures he can start out at Ohio State Lima and then finish up in C-bus in a year or two -- figures he’ll do Business, because it’s safe, smart, and hell, it’s not like he’d fucked up the pool thing too badly in a solid three years of doing it, so he figures he can’t fail at it too epically. Kurt, though, he was on top of things: eventually accepted a scholarship to study music at Hidelberg for the Fall, and Noah can’t be all that pissy about it. Tiffin’s pretty close to home.

So maybe it’s not all endings. Not for sure, at least.

“No,” he says, breathes it out against Kurt’s temple. “It’s not where I say that.”

Kurt shifts, tries to look him in the eye, but the angle’s off. “Then what do you say?”

“Nothing,” he answers; “you’re the talker around here.” He grins a little, runs a hand down Kurt’s side. “I’m just trying to get in your pants.”

He hears the huff, feels it stretch under his palm where it rests against Kurt’s ribs; “I’m trying to be serious, Noah.”

“Me too,” Noah says wryly, cupping Kurt through the crotch of his pants without prelude and smiling into the line of his jaw. “I’m horny as _fuck_.”

“Jesus,” Kurt moans as Noah strokes him through his jeans -- tight fuckers that Noah can’t even get his fingers into, but he’ll make do. And given the sounds that Kurt’s making -- all keens and groans as he increases the pressure, because Kurt’s kinda easy like that; as Noah grinds his own hips up against Kurt’s ass where they’re sitting, easing the tightness in his own groin -- it sounds like he’s doing alright.

It doesn’t take long before Kurt comes lazily, with a little sound in the back of his throat that Noah catches against his mouth as he kisses down Kurt’s neck, lets him fall back against him bonelessly as he comes down, breathes deep, as Noah reaches down his own pants to finish himself off; Kurt’s there, though, slipping a hand in and stroking him without any finesse, all quick and tailored straight to what drives Noah over fast and hard.

And it works like a goddamn _charm_.

He lets himself breathe heavy with it, until all the tension’s gone and Kurt’s laying them both on out their backs in the grass, Kurt’s head settled against him as he curls into his side, eyes closed, holding tight to him.

The air’s cold, damp -- there’s dew in it, and the sun’s gonna be up too soon.

“You’re a great lay,” Noah murmurs against the crown of Kurt's head as soon as he catches his breath, lips sliding on the sweat at his hairline; he lets himself feel the rumble of the words against Kurt's cheek on his chest, lets the way they shiver run through him, shake deep. “Thanks for putting out.”

He’s pretty sure Kurt hears the things he doesn’t say.

 

 


End file.
